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
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