By Sydney Lee

The cloud lingers by the lone tree

waiting for hours, for days, for me—

amongst residues of earth’s herbs: hebetude—

a lone tree.

Time collects dust, gentle against stone windowsill,

the kind that taints your glow, the Naples yellow

your wings once held captive.

Payne’s gray and blue flicker

against my stifled tears, consume my yellow

in its entirety.

Blue rage

ends before new Sunday.

Tears too big to swallow turn me into November,

weather my city, drown me in your Ultramarine—

Make heavy weather of my readily bare branches

captive to solitude, desolate cold

till you drift, drift away—

to fresh gesso,

new sovereignty.

I return to green.