A juniper planted when the speaker moved in has grown enormous, spreading across windows, streets, and houses. It blocks light and views, yet the room somehow stays bright. The bush is also protective: it screens the home from passing cars and neighbors’ eyes. The speaker’s tone is gently wry and accepting—they keep cutting it back, but it keeps returning. Over time, the juniper becomes a kind of mirror. Neighbors’ children who used to visit have turned into teenagers too old to come; the speaker and the neighbors have grown grey, but inside they feel unchanged, looking out at limbs grown stiffer. The mood is quiet and reflective, a little bittersweet. The plant keeps spreading and closing in, yet an inner brightness remains.
The Juniper — Summary
when we moved here it was so tiny now it spreads and spreads up to the window covering streets houses, blocking out light yet somehow our rooms are bright
growing sideways artful hardy protecting us from others' eyes and driveways, cars guarding our windows
once tiny like our neighbours' children who once visited grew into teenagers too old to come
or like we and our neighbours growing grey unchanged within we just look out at stiffer limbs
we cut and cut the Juniper but it keeps on spreading blocking light yet the room stays bright