Resting

I sat under a bottle tree

and every vessel glinted

tourmaline, cranberry, cobalt.

Skinny branches like children's arms

hold skating

lanterns aloft.

Who slid that first bottle

neck over stick

into place?

Some country Paul Cézanne?

? An artistic Hattie?

A fiery Phoenix?

Some artist couldn't leave

well enough alone

wanting color.

Listen, I don't mind being a barefoot

girl under this naked

yet resplendent tree.

I do mind being naked

when the tree

is dressed so fine.

                             -Donna Isaac