by Lida Broadhurst

In the spring, they said, work would come for all. Trees flowered, but counter lines blossomed only with tendrils of outstretched fingers. Come summer, they said, work would awaken, ripen and spill scent. And indeed, the summer saw the power of nasturtiums to stun. But in a distant garden, where the crop needed no hands to harvest. On the counters lay patient fists and arms, like stones from abandoned quarries. Wait, they said, in autumn, the harvest will cry for help, needing those who bend and chop and tie. That season gleaned only people, standing in lines like withered corn, the illusion of summer’s wealth in their hands. By winter, all pretense was fled, along with the sun. Flowers lay crystalline, and voices cut like silver, while snow persisted. Lines wove about the counters in the slow ritual of a solstice dance. Yet still, they said, wait but for spring, when bulbs burst and eggs crack under the blue of the sky, and blossoms settle on the branches like butterflies. Blood rushes like sun-released snow. In the spring, they said, work would be there for all.

Lida Broadhurst‘s prose and poetry arise from looking at  urban life, cats, and family through a twisted mirror. These visions have appeared in The Orphic  ChronicleEternity Online,  The Edge,  Star*Line, and over one hundred  other publications.   She is also the assistant fiction editor of the literary gothic web site Skin and Bones.