With apologies to W.C.W.
Sitting in a corner,
Long neglected
And rarely visited.
The metal wheel
Rusted red
The color of the cold hard clay
It rests upon.
Fire truck red slats
Now faded and peeling
In the summer’s sun.
Weeds grow tall around it
And embrace the barrow
Like the mother and child.
Once the gardener had hope
For this place,
And this wheelbarrow
Was her instrument of change.
Dreaming of moving
Her flower creations
To match her whimsy
Painting masterworks
With sprouting petals.
What happened to your dreams?
Your pretty plans?
They belong to another time
When hope sprang in this wild place
Like dew covered blossoms
Rejoicing in the morning’s sun.
Now she sits inside,
And drinks her wine,
Dreaming of another time.
