His voice came across
he told her what to do.
She trembled. But she did it.
There were so many thorns on the roses.
Pruning was difficult. But she knew, she knew
that to make the bush more beautiful
she had to cut
away the dead wood.
She cried silent tears, salty tracks down her cheeks
As the thorns pierced her grasp, the scissors slipping just
a little as she cut the overgrowth choking out the new green.
When the dormant season was over,
the roses were more glorious and beautiful
than they had ever been.
Apocalypse dread and the eclipse,
Things are weird and strange with smoke in the distance
From fires in another country…
A slight breeze in the trees
And overcast skies
warn us, too,
that winter is coming.