If I could  buy springtime,
I’d order the emerald sweater in the catalogue,
and wear rain fresh grass and tender leaves forever.

Green would fill my eyes, touch my skin.
Everyone else would see it too, 
ingesting through the eyes.

There’d be no need for hope.
I’d be wearing it all the time.

But like the Easter dress I had when I was sixteen,
that shrank in the wash, I probably leave it in the closet.

Still, I’m green to purchase again.
Gray overtakes the brown on my head. 
My limbs dry and stiffen.
I’m less green all the time.

Purchasing power gives me confidence.
I can ignore the ground I walk on.
The green sweater is the answer.

Yet, deep down I know it’s no match
for the life of leaf on branch.

Leaves know all about falling apart, nourishing soil.
The sweater I’m dying to wear
fits like the ruined dress I got rid of long ago.

What would happen if I raised my arms like a tree
swayed, let the wind clothe me instead?

- Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash