Does your sway coat you in mid-July?
Unwashed since Winter's wane
Still worn. For what?
Lack of hook?
Slack of shrug?
Fall beckons its pastel gloves,
In humming winds around you.
Your scarf slips slow
as the cruel song plays.
The drone drip of the soaked through pockets
the cold dribble pasting hair to layer.
And all the while it's still July,
and sway should not be folded or hung
but flung from limb.
Tossed in heaps in lost and found bins?
Among the pinks and hues of fade
that fashion's fling saw fit to drop?
Or the fad fling many
felt fit to forget?
Better yet to burn
or turn for those whose felt is art,
or held for those who winter threads.
Disarm, disrobe. All in the same breath, crawl in the same vein. The blood flow ripples through rivers, so don't let your rowboat raise hairs or razed flare will boil to burn. (And knowing the smell of singe...)
Sing instead and stroke.
Fording suits you so much better.