I rewind the familiar film.
Rich brown earth drips
like sweet honey from small
fingers in the garden beds behind
my parent’s house. Sunlight sinks
across the yard and melts beneath
the spreading limbs of an oak
whose rope swing rests, idle.
A chainsaw severs the silence
and wood chips fly, splashing
in the creek where my brothers
play in the midsummer heat.
The stack of firewood swells.
Leaves shrivel and the silver-faced
moon lingers into frosty mornings.
Amber flames coax the damp chill
from woolen hats hung above the
fireplace while smoke spirals above
skeletal treetops. Sticks clatter against
the stone birdbath in the empty
garden. Seedlings hatch on the sheltered
windowsill. Memories in this world used
to be a gentle whisper. Now, the ancient
trunk of the oak is split and its barren
branches threaten the back porch.
Noel Vanderbilt
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