Neuron branches
in yellow ochre, burnt sienna,
burn the stasis of their growing
through the windowtint glazed
behind the half-wall
of my grey cubicle.
This is (again) a subtle-sunned
Novemb - er, no, December day;
I am sunstared, ponderous
still of the effect
those rays have on the box elder tree,
and vice versa.
Frozen lightplay. Even leafless,
in the maple I glimpse
the wind elbow through
tightweave limbs, the way
I'd squeeze Play-doh
balls - neon pink -
through open windowscreens when
(five, and)
Mom wasn't keeping her cautiouseye
at the ends of my hands.
The screen a filter, an
instant, impacted but only slightly
bent or displaced.
The Play-doh departed in
stringpieces, magenta noodles.
Crumbles of itself stuck behind.
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