than me, with delicate-looking,
long, slender leaves, slowly swaying,
laborless in the sunlit breeze.
Most wear true green, green, vibrant
tended golf-course green, yet some
are golden from lack of rain and heat.
The candle sticks reach up in
mountain pose, with soft-rust,
brown-orange flowers.
All are layered like leaves of any
tree, any forest, flower bed, field
of corn. Life, full of infinite layers.
Onyx and I are outsiders again.
Last winter we stood within,
beyond the cat tails, upon the
white ice of mallard pond.
Today she finds something grounded
within this growing fortress,
her black tail wooshing back and forth.
I silently watch. She listens
and smells, smells with a wolf nose.
"What is in there Onyx?"
I ask her. She looks up at me
and back at the cat tail forest floor.
I'd like to stay, float like a she elf
or Indian through the forest.
But I am neither.
For all my trying, it would be
like breaking words, a world
of words.
So we walk home, shined upon.
I feel my skin green, with a sudden
blending of allowing and joy.
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