Stasis
Stasis
I left the eggplants on the vine this year.
Unpicked.
Forlorn.
They hang bloated on blackened stalks,
dusted gratefully with snow.
The garden’s water mill wheel stands still
Fixed.
Unmoving.
Arrested by Winter’s ice.
Parsley and mustard greens battle daily
for life.
peeking, bright green still;
from the sleet sheet covering their bed.
Stalwart sage vies for vertical dominance
remaining the only evergreen symbol of life
in the refuse of dirty white.
Spring can not come soon enough.
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