on molasses legs,
sticky and resistant and new.
So we blur and burn it:
I am six and a half.
I am a pre-teen.
By summer we know suns set.
But they brown our skin just so.
Best not to speak in front of the kids.
Autumn takes the stairs on matchstick legs.
Some thin, some thick as trunks.
All on the singular.
Winter knows repose.
That blur is just beauty,
carved of the same tree.
