chameleon

I can see the seasons changing

with my skin — a chameleon

of hopeful reds and oranges

set to pioneer, to chart a course

through years of fearing all

that gleams will surely be

washed away. That all we

treasure is destined for decay.

I can see the starving summer

slip away, hazy hues giving way

to a bolder sense of self.

No one else can see: their eyes

are fixed on trees. But I don’t need

a witness to this quest for something

new. The breezes crisp will carry me

through and through.