Going Bare

clematis seedhead


She slips out of silk, chiffon

garments dropping to the floor

in silent summer sighs like

flower petals. Leaving them

where they fall, she fingers her

wardrobe with a practised hand,

stopping briefly at her warm

wool suit, dismissing it as

too formal, too restrictive.

Dissatisfied, fingers trace

the rack again and again –

this too plain, this too last year,

that too wintry for autumn

sun. A thought strikes. Mirth tugs at

the corners of her ruby

lips as she wriggles brilliant

toenails into a leafy

carpet. “I’ll do it!” she grins.