In spring you shed
mad winter growth;
wonder plumage
enviable by any bird.
Rite of passage
ushers in your time
of seasonal regeneration,
hints of immortality.
Dust hangs in the air.
Mound of shavings on the floor.
A glance in the mirror leaves
you barely recognizable.
You emerge shorn,
pale and summer-ready,
protected by nothing but expectancy
and your skin.
and your skin.
tk/June 2015
Elegant read by R.A.D. Stainforth...
