Remembering the Farm
Thomas Leonard Shaw
Under the sunlight you
find dried up oranges, the occasional
cluster of apples, overripe pears and all
other fruits from the farm closed down
years ago.
You talk of the chimney,
how ash used to float in columns
of grey puffs ascending, vanishing
into seamless skies.
I remember the wall paper
yellow and crumbling. You talk
of chipped teacups, smashed
plates and shattered glass.
The last time we visited
this house was barred with a signpost.
Foreclosure it whispers, wood rotting
alongside the sign’s own insides.
We should really call
Mom and Dad, but how
do we travel the distance
from phone call to receiver,
between the first and last click.
We continue forward
without instruction, stepping
over the remnants
in place of the whole.
Instead I will point
at the rusty wheelbarrow,
the pitchfork by the gate. Together
we recall the fruit market.
In returning to the stalls,
and the colors of summer harvest,
we remember the fall that preludes
winter.
