GrannyJae

There were no more miracles that year - no child snatched back at the edge of the cold lake in January or the deep sickness of winter sent fleeing from the bones of old ladies. Roots in the spring did not untangle and bring warmth to the orchards, turning stones to apples and the soft air of April did not quicken in the sun and grow into a forest. Summer did not bring back the birds. The swallows had left their nests all burning, And the August nights did not pull the stars one by one out of orbit and set them on a new course. No, the year had only grown old and careless and left the young men to once again walk out on wings.