Years

She thought of years, within a maluable frame, but a body, pulled out of orbit. Yet her senses are its captive. "How"? that's the question they, the young, ask themselves..or someone else. I am asked, "Why"? It is a theivery, a feat of taking of what is perpetual, until the flesh is consumed by decay. Until the bones sprout into the tree as dark as dusk, though sometimes a web is woven amongst its limbs, and in the rain, next to a streetlamp, the web sparkles. Their entwined roots grasp Fertility. They may be planted. Or cut, burned. "Why" are there midnight songs? Or the Lakes created by the rain, over eons. These glassy bodies may have a beach, a mowed lawn, or a deep wilderness that can betray, as you become lost. But her shores.. are more colorful than Autumn leaves, as rich as Spring's BLOOM-a pastel sketch- CHARMING, and a Summer garden. Thus, a Winter Spectre will beckon: a lady. She will come, be a perfumed whisper in a funeral. The heavens will be alien skies- cruer tinctures, or the many tints of the rose; or a star's light dimmed by seven planets that have the nights, days cut into halves. And perhaps a planet will come too close. January 23, 2021