I’m just hanging on here, by a thread, the last of my kind. All the others are gone, dried up, blown away, dead–dust to dust.
Once, I fluttered about, to and fro, gay, soaking in the sunshine, cool breezes. I would listen to the birds in the trees. Now the birds are gone from this place. Instead of their songs, there is the sound of passing cars and trucks and blasts of wind–hot, dry, smelling of tar and fumes.
There’s no reprieve at night, they roar past. There’s only me to hear them. Everyday I am a little older, a littler dryer, cracked, scratchy, thinner.
Today may be my last. The next rush of wind may rip me from this vine where I’ve been hanging on–by a thread.
(C) Glenda Kotchish
June 2020