9 - The last of the tulips.
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And I felt myself drift to someone new at noon, to
see the same scene sideways.
And on that side of the silo there was metal
fencing, leaning on the facing wall and
rusting. Green grass grew, if only a little, until
the tiny travel trailer she left there with the
last of the tulips was no longer of note. If not
of note, then at least of memory - for she was
grown and gone, her need of tiny trains and
trailers fininshed, finally. As for the fence,
it's task was buried, checked and recalled,
archived here.
And past that, beyond that, lay the lumber bits,
the saved ends, sorted on size, leaning and
waiting too. It had been 50/50 that they and not
the other would be the best end and then the rest
here, but here is how it landed. I see nothing I
need, and so I continue.
Our rusted cars lie here, far from the frame they
knew. For parts I suppose, but parts of what
purpose I could never say. A motor home, a
hummer-v, a hyundai. Stopped here a while. I wish
I were looking for something small, something
clean, something simple in a simpler box,
something to search and find and draw to, but it
is not here this day.
