Red Dress

Listen to this article

Every tree needs a red dress
in autumn, a crisp fire-red,
fashion statement at November’s Ball,
a party in country fields
fueled by apples, cold cider in cups.
Every woman owns at least
one red dress, its sensual fabric
as much as the color
luring her into sin—even the hem
caught in a fever too quick
to quench.. That crimson dress
slinking toward the midnight hour,
bold enough to act on its own.
Stories spring from taffeta and tulle,
the daring bodice, an army of sequins
storming Paradise
beneath the hunter-green moon.
Kiss the woman, love the dress,
rake the excess, leave it.
This season, a poem-in-progress,
a photograph—what the shutter saw
before the sun chose to set. Star.
Always red. Remember the red.

Inspired by “A Sugar Maple Tree on Saint Paul Street” ©Bill Hughes