Will She Fall?
by Mark Smith

The ash at my front
window will turn
when ready,
notwithstanding the
neighbor’s tree, whose
agenda is more rash. She
sheds her clothes at
any hint of a brash wind.
Others on the block have
been nude for a week.
They are younger, wild.
My dear is full blush, and
burning bush, scarlet
scarfed and broad-hipped.
She won’t drop until a dark
night when you can’t watch
her let go.

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