Signs of Affection - Hanging Garden

In the vague light of this dawnlit room

With tender feet a spider brushes my brow

She longs for the warmth and all the blessed things

Long since gone

In their stead

A starlit void to take us in

Unsullied altogether by a single city’s light

The profound silence of the woods

The strange serenity of these hollow homes

And those of us that remain able to provide

Each other these signs of affection

The perfect brown egg fresh from the coop

A crumble sweet, a mound of berries black

A warm cup of tea second to last in existence

A slight touch of gentle confusion

Of sorrow, of compassion, or risen from rare tenderness

All the more fragile and bittersweet in the dawning awareness

Of how little there is left to possess

To share

To sustain

To nurture a forlorn thread of hope resting in the cup if one’s palm

Not long now

I suppose the wind

Shall kill the last of flames

We’ve run out of things to burn and devour

Will it sooth us then, in the end of all things

To gently grasp the hand of another

Slowly growing cold