Outfit Poem by Martha Zweig

Chilly creek water scoots the last of the stripped
trees' rags through rocks. Underneath dark ice
minutely snowspeckled overnight,
the odd bubble of trapped air wriggles
this way & that, all but organism-

Say I absconded with my little life!
All October this woods blew to tatters &
fussed over its clutter in skittish leaves;
now it prides itself taller & sleek
in its most elegant dishabille,

& so as I mull over for my insurgent
humor what it will wear today, I'll pick
frayed browns, siennas to umber, & slick
black like these not-quite-heart-
shaped toothy damp popple flags.