Skirts of Gossamer Gold

Magical bare trees of an autumn forest in HungaryTwirling mystic in skirts of gossamer gold–
In the trees
There like sea-weed monster draped through boughs and static-crisp air,
Tepid, electric-blue air
to drench my tongue,
to spark my eyes electric!

Oh, like neon-soup it torments my cheeks–
The aged and wanton branches, their grasping tentacles,
The tree!

But you…

You.

You empty the tree.

And the world says never mind you sinners touching trees.

One Reply to “Skirts of Gossamer Gold”

  1. Pingback: The ‘Art’ Experience: Acquiring Beauty of Mind | Dawn Trowell Jones

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