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From the window she could see them in the garden
standing close and parallel
two-cypress trees alone together
rising from among the flowers.

They seemed to be conferring
and perhaps conspiring,
and this is what had frightened her.
She glared through the pane of glass
that divided her from them
past her own reflection.

Should she smash that pane,
shatter it with her bony fist,
send a web of cracks throughout
its smooth clarity,
destroying its perfect surface?

The hostile edges of that glass,
all its tiny see-through shards,
might open up her whitened knuckles
and blood would run along her fingers,
across her hand and down her arm.

It'd make a web just like the window
and the cracks in a stone
from a mason's chisel
It would be the branches on a tree,
that continue to get smaller
throughout the generations,
ending with a single leaf.

So many webs to be caught up in
and panes that may need breaking
And cracks that can't be patched
and cuts that won't stop bleeding.
She can't think about it now.
There is much work still to do.

Written by: ~ Josh Woods