Twined in the thriving plates and needle points of Spring, it peeks, and burrows, through the whispering ankle deep ripples like a shed, paled, yellowed, snake skin. Four months passed, ponderous as willow trees on an afternoon stroll, dappled rays of guilt glinting on their leaves. Winking and weighty. Gently, he placed her sunburst candy purse, still full with spare hose, lipsticks, eye pencils, amidst the glittering and stunted black stalks, rigored and dead as the legs of a poisoned field cricket colony.
A square of ash flakes and dissolves against his naked wrist. He casts about as a fox for hounds unmustered. Fingers touch and wipe clean the fresh droplet of the pigment spilled and dried and peeling free of the Spring painted beneath.
The stemware rested, a crescent of invisible blade, against the pile of the thin burgundy rug. Her toy kanine descended, curious, to the spreading, mingling, stains and in a few moments slit her pink little nose from tip to, cleft, snuffling, upper lip. A third, confused, whimper brings naught but the unamused and taciturn stare of the gray hour hand, while minutes twitched by the fireplace’s brick work like nerve throttled heartbeats before known and suspect footsteps.
