The red wheelbarrow

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.

 

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About oxrider

Mr. Winter has written novels, books of poetry and short stories, and books on acting. He has written over three dozen plays, winning the S.C. Playwright’s Festival. His inventive theatrical work has been seen in the US and Europe. A.F. Winter has been acting, teaching, and directing, for over 30 years. He created a theatre which worked with at-risk youth giving them positive alternatives in their lives. Please visit his website at AFWinter.com. View all posts by oxrider

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