mirror, mirror

Faded technicolor kodachrome. Hands full of glass shards and plastic burns. Blood dries on the cardboard while the stack of heirloom seeds, both saved and purchased, wait for the soil to warm. The hum of strings and her haunting voice float through smoke filled air. Flickering light takes on all the shapes I could hope for, but lacks any of the solice. The cold air seeps in from between the cracks in the door and these bits and pieces of ideas rattling around from year to year have become something. A real existing thing, bending light and time in it's own little cycle. The puzzle is still so far from done and, as always, as a new piece falls into place someone snaches another from the board. Still, progress is progress.