Her trash on the porch
caught my eye.
Purple petals turning mauve,
mixed with rust orange and red
in a surround of deep mist hides
fields and front range.
She’s been throwing out, giving away
for months preparing her transition
from bushel baskets, waxed
Away from closet filled rooms,
oils, pastels and sculptured peasant faces.
Today she came across games her
late husband made up: hand size
laminated photo art of Monet, Seurat,
and 15th century masters
with answers of artists on the back.
“When did he do all of this?” She asks.
“I thought he was at work.”
She continues shedding layers
of vintage children’s white dresses,
along with a mathematician,
gardener, musician, artist,
gourmet cook, weaver and grandmother,
Piled together in bushel baskets,
loaded with tomatoes, onions,
a bottle of black strap molasses
and sweet Mexican chocolate.
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Edited by: Ben Neal