Every border a strip of brown and orange, 
               winds bannering the approach of winter— 

exercises in subtraction, prior to rendering 
               disappearance. But for such as you,

having come from elsewhere, it can happen
               even without being tethered to the seasons. 

You, conversant in the language of whelks
               and mangrove forests. You, generalissima

of the meagre, your one-woman army coaxing
               gossamer threads from mere leaves. Your

work: weave a dream the length of a fabric without
              limits, transparencies embellished by untutored

opulence— but what is it to those who don't 
              understand the price of beauty bled from

unacknowledged industry? Green walls, thinned
             epidermis; finger-bones chafed to opacity.

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