She now plants landmines 
where she once stationed azaleas 
but then spring is long past 
now, high sun skirmishes 
beseech to ignite the 
bonfires of autumn 
worse still, Jack Frost stirs 
rubbing his eyes, yawning 
rousing himself once more 
mischief, as ever 
his vexing wheeze 

that was then
when the ball was
still in play 

He stands, hands on hips
curtains drawn wide open
back bedroom, top of the house
watching her prune
whatever it is she prunes
him, pondering the point
as to how from sustainable
stalemate she has
broken through his lines
to claim victory in a self-rule
he sees only as his rout 

That this is a mere flash
an event anterior
to the cerebral scars
of invidious bloodbath
is the only saving grace
for this amiable jester
long since salvaged, now
woven tightly into the
threads of seasoned
new love's genius, and
the taffeta cloak
masking for him alone
her bountiful treasures

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