By Maddie Willigar | Assistant Editor
After Aron Wiesenfeld’s “Greenhouse”
I remember standing here like an angel clothed in baby’s
breath: damp hair blowing in the wind by the greenhouse where
there was nothing left but buds and dew, no remanence but the
faint scent of you passing through like the wind softly
kisses the grass and leaves not a trace of itself behind.
I watched the buds struggle to bloom in their cage and
reach towards dim light. But what more could a mother
do except watch them grow only to know they would
wither, just as the caterpillar realizes fragile branches don’t
support the weight it takes to become a butterfly?
They watched you come and go in their seedling years like
the spinning storm sky quietly turns back to blue, without a
clue of how destructive each storm was. Blowing around their
insecurities in the spiral of your temporary love, they mended
what your wind broke with the hope of a compassionate rush.
But I calmed the storm and hid them under my wings
until the sky cleared and birds chirped in their trees,
and now I stand back and watch as the blossoms that
you left, grow into flowers and leave
every trace of you behind.
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