Prisoner In Spring

Outside these walls are bright tulips,
coral red and shining yellow.
I can see them through the glass.
There’s not much wind – they sway,
enough to kiss the daffodils
with their drooping dead heads,
but not more than that.

I imagine the grass with the prints
of my bare feet dancing through,
and mud in the curl of my toes,
but the daisies stay undisturbed.
From here they are scattered flecks,
all white without the yellow touch
of their innards or the pink stain
on their tiny unfurling petals.
I will not rip them up in search of answers:
loves, loves me not, loves, loves me not.
I will not have the chance to touch them.

The glass is dusty and spider’s webs
adorn and obscure the garden.
Inside these walls are no flowers,
no trees or grass or breeze or warmth
save the asthmatic wheeze of heaters.

The glass shows a world unchanged,
but for all I know, the glass lies.

(16th April, 2015)

The End

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