9 - The last of the tulips.
joneworlds@mailbox.org

And I felt myself drift to someone new at noon, to
see the same scene sideways.

And  on that  side  of the  silo  there was  metal
fencing,   leaning   on   the  facing   wall   and
rusting. Green grass grew, if only a little, until
the tiny  travel trailer  she left there  with the
last of the  tulips was no longer of  note. If not
of note,  then at  least of memory  - for  she was
grown  and  gone,  her  need of  tiny  trains  and
trailers  fininshed, finally.  As  for the  fence,
it's  task  was   buried,  checked  and  recalled,
archived here.

And past  that, beyond that, lay  the lumber bits,
the  saved  ends,  sorted  on  size,  leaning  and
waiting too. It  had been 50/50 that  they and not
the other would be the  best end and then the rest
here, but here  is how it landed. I  see nothing I
need, and so I continue.

Our rusted cars lie here,  far from the frame they
knew.  For  parts I  suppose,  but  parts of  what
purpose  I  could  never  say.  A  motor  home,  a
hummer-v, a hyundai. Stopped  here a while. I wish
I  were  looking  for something  small,  something
clean,   something  simple   in  a   simpler  box,
something to search  and find and draw  to, but it
is not here this day.