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

hardwood floors.

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