i stand at the edge of a garden behind me lies another garden behind it another another another on and on a series of sepia tinted flowerbeds long gone to weed to dirt to ash

the roots of the last still dig into my ankles the tendrils slowly retracting from my heart leaving only thorny reminders of year spent lost in the four walls of lockdowned heartache

the blackened petals i step on these last few steps crackle to release an acrid aroma of acrimony as pale pink peonies beckon across the wrought iron bars separating the past from present

already the details of triumphant tragedies dim in the soft golden glow emanating ahead the chill winds of promises unfulfilled tickle the back of my neck as the leaves slice at my cheeks

the cold can make yoy feel alive enough to appreciate the coming spring as the mockingbirds try to imitate the song of love the cuckoo sings to the canary over early morning coffee

hindsight may be twenty/twenty but i find myself looking forward in great anticipation