Above, branches weave like fingers —--
hands folded in prayer. My skin has cooled
in this shade. For a moment, I imagine
myself beautiful. This would be the best
time to sleep, become an afternoon's idol
but two squirrels begin their games,
leaping limb to limb --— autumn wood
scrapes like bone. Day ages, shadows stretch
their roots, and the sun dips her eye beneath
the tree's stark hem —-- my skin begins
to warm. I'll not be worshipped again.

© by S. Thomas Summers.
Used with the author's permission.

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