An Umbrella Full of Holes

My canopy keeps the sun indirect
I'm camouflaged from the Eye, partially
Trees, fully cicada'd
Whine that they're being used
As they synthesize that which does not make it to me

Rays borne on nearly autumnal wings
Staying off of the butterfly
And spider strings
Finding my fingers, alight
Across this keyboard, ignite

The breeze changes the portion
Of pajamas so warmed
And all of my torso
Is eventually found
Turning with glasses, shining around