Out my window

the moon swoons in enfolding arms of sky - a glassed-out world I cannot touch, seen through pain and this pane my four sycamores, sick to the core and wanting more than the moon-smitten sky is willing or able to give. With this they live, and compete for love in their darkening peat - ghosts of the garden, guardians of the eastern gate. The dark and bark begin to flake...The pane perspires pain droplets like fever-beads...Nerves like wires sizzle in my hands - little cerise, scorched trees. Stirred by a breeze of unease, my rootless reflection melds with the trees. Now light is darkening in the window the moon is a cold blinded eye on high, blind to the needs of the sycamores that plead as their rotating blades are freed - desperate spinning seeds that scythe the sky and drift to loam, their cold-holding home. Night begins to bleed and seep. The garden weeps. The outer world recedes; pain splinters lodge deep. The pane is a sheeted and shattering mirror.