Hazel

is the colour of
my better wishes;

the ones not tainted
by flesh and wealth, or
homes with dandelions
in the front garden,
a child in the back;

hopes shallow enough
to wade in -

hazel
are the husks of aged
earthen oaks I spend
the winter days
longing to touch,

the nights are longer,
more time to wander,

to bathe completely bare
in the swathes of
dusk lit fields -

it is the colour my dreams
faintly wield, between
midnight and morning’s
overcast seals,

the iris of autumn,
and the kiss that only
served to reel me in;

hazel is the colour
that stares so meekly
in the mirror.