The yellowed green of the trees in failing
Light. Beyond the road reflecting in pink.
Beyond the wood and chicken wire bin
Overfull with black bags of trash. Beyond
The black barren in the grass where the old
Limbs had been burned. Beyond the hill of the
Crack and gravel driveway mostly reclaimed
By grass. Beyond the dog yipping from the
Drifting reek of her pin, the shadow of
Night creeps up until only the tops of
The trees are lit by the searching spotlight
Of sunset. Beyond, the window burns with
Woman framed in the living room. She sorts
The good from the bad and packs them. The life.
And memories of an old house. The things
Collected by mothers, grandmothers, and
Their daughters. A woman’s trash of treasures.
The echoes of the love that drove her life.
To find when they went into the lives they
Had. To find how much beauty could remain
With a broken woman in an empty
House. To scream. To hit. To drive them away.
Silhouette of the trees charred black by the
Burning pink of the sky. The clouds sprinkled
And scattered leaving a rainbow lighting
The darkening sky reaching straight up like
A spotlight for all to attend the grand
Reopening of the American south.
