it's useless to dredge up the past this way; who, after drinking a mug of tea, would chew the bitter dregs? let us merely remember.
it's the iron curtain all over again, unseen and unheard behind miles of razor-wire, but for the sky's unblinking eye. it's miles of saplings behind the miles of wire, too flighty to take root and too frightened to stand still lest they grow into the ground. they're dancing trees, some waltz in pairs, some boogying with ivy ensnared, some flicking and tripping. they're leaf-heavy and toppling, preening, prancing, tumbling.
the wire is to keep the wise old gardener out, with his startling laugh and fierce hands, but little do they know- the sky is his spy.
with each amber heartbeat, he draws nearer, spade and shears in hand. there is more joy in peaches, call the tallest trees over the wretched curtain, than in crawling across hills and valleys.
choose a peak and blossom.
