Intense for Sunday Scribblings

It's the last to change

and this year

I didn't think it would.

As the hillsides

turned fiery,

this tree outside

my kitchen window

stayed green. Summer

in autumn. Watermelon

rind green. Other leaves

drifted to the ground

creating multicolored

quilts but outside

my kitchen July

stubbornly held on.

Then one morning

I noticed a slight

yellowing along

the edges. Amid

the bare branches

of other trees

this maple turned

pineapple. A warm

sunrise. A treasure

chest of gold doubloons.

And this last day

of October

it illuminates

the snowflakes

swirling in the air.

Masquerade for Writer's Island

Rob at Writer's Island offers this image for inspiration:

I always hated that damn bird.
And he hated me.
But I couldn't let my daughter know.

So, I fed him and cleaned his cage
and cooed and petted
but when we were alone

my mask came off and I'd glare
at him. “Stay right where you are,
buddy, and don't even think

of climbing onto my shoulder.”
He'd turn his head and hiss at me.
Then go back to preening

his snowy feathers, those same feathers
I'd stepped on one morning. The vet
said no bones were broken

but Flip stayed huddled in his cage
for a week giving me the evil eye.
I smiled beneath my mask.

3WW: Absolve, Hiss, Ridicule

Tried to write a tritina instead of a sestina.  It sort of worked!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Save your ridicule.
It’ll only make me hiss.
Nothing you can do can absolve

you. You are a scab, solv-
ing your own ridicule-
filled life by trying to erase your his-

tory. You pick at the wounds and hiss
then try to hurt me to absolve
your own guilt from the ridicule

inflicted by parents who thought ridicule
was a form of love. Turn your hiss-
es into kisses and our issues will be solved.

3WW: Hint, Lust, Sheen

A hint of wrinkles
along with a sheen of gray~
content holding hands.
WHERE HAS LUST GONE?
Not content with hands
he nuzzles under the gray,
kisses each wrinkle.