The Thorngarden

This is it.  This is the life I won; the life I chose.  A garden full of thorns and not one rose.  I don’t need anymore people who tell me that is the way the cookie crumbles or the way the wind blows.  This is the life and that is just how it goes.  Bare branches are braced against the blue.  Winter provides a nice white backdrop for the long windows, turning fluorescence into gleams, then glares, then reminiscence.  Winter expands from the middle with clouds and cold wind that stings the eyes a little along the surface and in the hollows.  Finches, Sparrows, and other birds with brittle wings wing south condensation crusting ice around the mouth; like the cold hard truth.  Objects to the old appear further and further back.  The windows now return my sight back and forth to me for all it’s worth, as night grows.  When death ebbs; life flows.  Trees once silver, then green; now fade to black.

12.2.2002