There is a river
inside my garden
that flows around
the broken glass
and trays of ash
that choke the birds
and fumble words
and smother all the roses.

It winds around
the crumbling brick,
surging past
half-painted walls
and echoing through
empty halls of wax
to wane and crash
and splash a sonnet at my feet.

The river does not
start or end
it surges on
through days and years,
freshwater tears
and bloodshot eyes
stiff-lip disguised
as adult honesty.

These tears swim down
to rainbow fish
that leap and plunge
and twirl and lunge,
reflecting  light
and mirrored tones
of warm delights
into these empty spaces.

But winters come
and rivers freeze.
These lights will all
but disappear
over somewhere,
as rainbows lead
away from me and misery
will smother all the roses.

My mother says
when spring returns
and I have learned
to breathe the ashes
through hot flashes,
they will reappear—
as strange creatures
with similar features.

and the life that flows through the river of this spring
can only live in memory.

 

 

 

*image retrieved from the internet

 

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