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James Grinwis

A Miramax film: on the screen, a blue spruce,
snow twisting down, some wind.

A whole hour like that.
“This is my film,” she said, “and you may watch with me.”

We sat in silence in the dark hall, watching the tree.

“You know, I remember a scene like this,
from my childhood!” I remarked after 40 minutes,
“thank you for bringing it back to me.”

“Shh,” she said. In the reaches of my mind,
a theater of thought took hold, one filled with gaudy ornaments
and unruly clusters of wildlife.

There was the big theater of vegetative thoughts,
and me, and her, the only thing between us
growing tinier each minute, like something smushed.

James Grinwis

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