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He wipes his hands on his coat
Just stood at the prow with that jagged thing hanging from his neck
Beneath the surface
darker and thicker than most
It marks the moment more than any clock could
The Rose at Noon yarn He wipes his hands onThe garden wasnt left to grow wild, not here. Beds were kept in order, paths cleared, stems cut back before they could tangle into each other. Roses were watched closely not for beauty, but for timing. Too early and they wouldnt hold. Too late and theyd fall apart the moment they were touched. Now, she said, handing over the shears. He hesitated just long enough to make it obvious. Youll miss it, she added. The cut was clean, just below the node. The
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