You slip it on so abruptly when I’m not watching.
You let it’s green color shimmer below the long
layers of clouding.

The blotches of poppy and extreme fields of lupine
cling to your thighs, clear down to your knees,
and at your feet the clusters for a few days
are almost too brilliant for bearing any witness.

Then the flashes of heat show how your contour
is being transformed with the common seasonal aging.

You should know that I expect this, because
I have seen it before with other affectionate
California hills.

Even the local newspapers carry stories inviting
people like myself to come see you all dressed
up so pretty, before you begin your fade into
a brown that some prefer to call a gold.

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