Andrew Gordon
Imagining Spring

     A single stalk of wheat leftover from the fall harvest shivers in the wind beneath a dull winter sunset. The prison lights shine, and in the expanding darkness and the cold the formless wind chills barren fields all the way to the curve of the world and I hear echoes in the empty hallways of the prison where there is no wind and no cold but emptiness which never dims. I hear them pacing back and forth in their cells as they stare through the walls with looks as hollow as the wind. But their steps wear the concrete down to dirt and wheat starts to grow in their footsteps and it is golden under the fluorescent light and the toilet flushes and it grows on a hillside overlooking the ocean where waves glitter in the sunlight and cumulus clouds glide toward the end of the world where water and sky meet and they teeter playfully on the edge, daring the wind to blow them into the night.