twelve fruit trees

there is a small yard just outside town
where the green grass grows bare
patchy and brown
at the edge of the road
and just by looking at it
you can’t tell
if the grass is retreating
or the dirt road
is fighting,
me, i hope
the grass wins in the end
cause there is nothing sadder
than a stretch of lonely road
when the sun dips
below the wooded pines
and the evening draws
its children near
to brood under it’s skirts.

there are the familiar things
that sing to me
things i recall from that brown house
from when i was young

the silvering fence
that i walked on
balancing for hours

twelve fruit trees
my father planted
they never grew
even with the gallons
and gallons of water
poured down their thirsty gullets.

a green afghan blanket
i think my mother knitted it
an awful, terrible dark green
she kept it
over the back of the couch
and when my sister was angry
she would hide under it.

there is a small yard just outside town
where the green grass grows bare,
each of us knows it
it is part of our forgetting
and remembering
and wishing
through all our years
it haunts our waking hours
and torments our sleep.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.