Irrepressible passion for things to wear.
Apart from the smile of the day or a cloudy mood around.
Apart from a burden or our halo.
We can wear our job, the things we carry: a camera, a note-book, our daily bag with tools. Goods to sell at the market. A canvas. Even a coffin if that is the case.
We can wear our pain. It’s heavy. Or expectations. They are never ending.
We can wear a language or a hat. Even stupidity, though already abundant.
But to wear leaves, tonight, seems the only standing logic.
(in the picture: landscape architect and artist Roberto Burle Marx)