By Anne Pitkin
It’s not summer’s greenery I love but winter’s deciduous branches yearning upward, sky falling into them, blue or darker blue, a star or two descending slowly, limb to limb. Like an argument, they proceed, more often than not complex but every iteration visible, one growing directly from the other. Last summer in a storm, the robin’s nest blew to the ground. We hadn’t even known about it, so hidden it was, the eggs now broken. So many false promises in this world. Accept one and your life can be ruined forever. New Year’s Eve, along the avenue alders reached into the early evening sky, clear and faintly rose colored. Reached above the traffic, the walkers, the lit shops, into the no-nonsense emptiness where the beauty offered no meaning, broke no vows.
Copyright 2019 Pitkin