Cold Greenhouse

This morning, while I was simmering in the creative juices of what I've long called the "cozy cocoon" of my early morning bed, a poem began to come to me. I went into my office and wrote this:

In a Cold Greenhouse


Gray filters through

dirt-encrusted glass panes;

dead, withered plants hang

from basket gallows.

Stumbling along a path

littered with filthy, empty pots,

faltering foot kicks one

and it belches rodent bones.

And every broken table

is covered by moldy pots;

putrid with diseased, rotting seeds.


I know it's a singularly depressing poem, but I was actually in a very upbeat mood when--and after--I wrote it. I am reminded of Dorothy Sayers who once said that she wrote her most depressing scenes when she was happiest.

I believe that may be true of more authors. Perhaps an author doesn't dare to explore sad or frightening things during an emotionally fragile time, but has the confidence to tackle such scenes when emotionally strong.

I would love to hear readers' responses to "In a Cold Greenhouse" and what they think it might be about.