Summer
months are fitted and cloaked
With worthless
layers of dusty fabric
Assembled by
wind, kicked up by bare feet,
And cascaded
by rapid wheels or birds’ wings.
Uncoveted,
it collects itself on any surface,
Covers up
the appearance of things,
Disguises
the wilted and dying,
With a thin, archetypal mask,
Conceals the
luster of what had been.
Shape-shifting
vagabond, without destination,
Leaves my
footprints in the doorway,
Leaves an imprint
of the summer’s dry sun
On the
deepest well of the collective mind
As I wash it
away.
©cmheuer,
2015
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