, ,

Rusted implements.

08.05.17 – Ditched

I watched closely, the tumbled ambers and gold just on the cusp of switching over to a constant tone. I thought the crisp layers would keep them steady through thick and wind but the world turned them over and spilled their veins upon the reaching ground. The sepia brethren broke in the fall and the rest sat intact, scattered under bough. They’d be set upon with iron comb and resolute fists tracking them from the random plot to a quiet gathering in the corner of the lot. I always hoped the neighbors might send their young energy to stomp and stow beneath that pile, but it was captured and disappeared before even a day passed on its arrival.

The interloping petals played on in oaken shade not its own and spent their hours clinging to the earth like any moment might find it vanished. You could see a man on a search for all those crawling vines that leeched and drew from the green seed. I thought he was praying for a better way to make the mighty Eden grow again, but his hands weren’t clasped without weight. They were in fists, plucking angrily at the plants that made their way with the wild. Those roots struck deep and he grew redder to take them from a wanted home. He pruned without hymn or discretion.

There were shears brought out to make tidy this nature’s mane. I couldn’t see the far heart that swung metal back against the soft and yielding flora that grew here, but I could hear the tools scream and the earth fight for those that could not claim consent. I’d see the footprints of someone molding these ancient trees and fixing fast the flowers to their foundation. Someone chose change and bore down on the land to make it firm again. I sorely missed the slow reveal of treetops; their scaled veils fell like tears to a carved yard below.