Twenty

Behind the door is a thicket; behind the thicket, a forest, thick fir as far as eye can see. Gem-bright orbs are strung on every tree, dancing with spores and dust motes. Here is distraction, yellow and sore; here cruelty, damson brooding; here hunger for fame, gaudy cerulean. Here presumption, here angst, addiction, vapidity. Carelessness, pessimism, fastidiousness.

We are at the tree line. In the valley, the fruit has grown heavier, more dull. Gluttony is orange, greed maroon; envy not green but blood-red as a dying sun. And, knotted under miles of roots, three born before human consciousness, biding time.