PORCH OF THORNS

Off the porch and past the morning glories, through the mists of odd memories and a menagerie of emotions. Off the swing and its rusted chains and rotten wood. Now crashing through twilight and desperation and the regret just over the thorn-covered fence where I left it. The gate is unlocked and guarded by a legion of fireflies glowing with the frustration of non-communication. To say the willow was weeping would be cliché, but not untrue.
The translated rush of the stream was a warning to the rocks in its way about the dangers of complacency. The rock’s response is instantly silenced by the tuning of an old AM radio. Through the static, a woman’s butterscotch voice tells me that love ain’t worth the heartache, and that if my heart don’t ache, it wasn’t love. Melancholy and hope hang side by side on the sagging clothes line between last week’s dirty laundry and tomorrow’s fresh start. The fireflies that came this far are trying to tell me something.
The old radio is all static now, and the stream is rushing in it’s native tongue. On the other bank, two awkward teens are having the, “If you could start over, knowing what you know now,..” conversation that makes the old folks stare off into the distance and wonder if any of it’s worth the heartache anyway; too fearful to shut the gate on the regret behind them. Fearful of the thorns, and maybe the tears, too. Their rockers creak in time with the clock because the clock won’t wait and doesn’t care who keeps up. The breeze carries the smell of fresh laundry and indecision. It’s all too familiar.
Off the porch and past the luxury of ignorance. The morning glories smile and wave. The humming birds never stop to smell the flowers they feed on, while the bees honor their queen by using ancient alchemy to turn nectar into golden honey. Their buzz is hypnotic and now sounds very much like a pendulum.
Off my rocker, down the rabbit hole, off the porch and beyond all reason. If this be madness, I pray it not get worse.