Graduating to Wet Stones

Impasse Rising full with chantings, rustling with cobalt mantras I cannot unravel, having been born of things other than fierce and fragile breaths, this warm spell rising incites my own unsettled prayers invoked to blackened skies. One bleached luminary against the framework of night. Tonight the trees are possessed. The oaks standing naked or draped reluctantly in the frigid clinging fabrics of this drawn-out season. I too, have been clothed in material not of my design and am tired of wearing this shade nothing like August cerulean. But I'm uncertain of this temperate promise of green, wary of gold and azure offered to flesh still quivering with the remembrances of December. If I trust this invocation stirring, calling me out into late March dusk, tempting me to discard my winter adornments, it may only leave me as it has before, wrapped tighter in this blue.

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