“A 12 line poem with four four line stanzas, unrhymed, in the style of John Ashbury's works in The Double Dream of Spring”

In the garden, glass shadows droop over bent tulips,  
stone voices hoarding the afternoon’s faded silver,  
a picnic table warps beneath its own memory,  
no children here, only the mist’s tight-lipped patience.

Last winter, someone painted a bench blue—  
now peeling under the woolen hush  
of a sentence wanting to be finished,  
echoes trail off like late buses in careless rain.

Elsewhere, you are reading the newspaper.  
Somewhere, a clock—forgetful as laundry—ticks on.  
In the cracked birdbath, algae clouds the future,  
inscrutable as the luck we never believed in.

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