A deep russeting tips the scale. Age is like a still life. What do you choose
to set out on the table? That gate removed of its wrought iron hinges,
set up on sawhorses in the middle of a pasture, two donkeys mirrored
ass to ass in the background. How you miss the lowing of cows, disrupted by
the hydraulic squeal of a dump truck backing up. How you miss the sighing
of scythes, muscle ache of daybreak. So many lost items: pliers, paintbrush,
pen. Dead blooms of hydrangea arranged in a thick-bottomed vase.
Kernels of corn scattered like charms across the planks. Leaves turned up
or turned down to reveal their stark white furring. Tomatoes, translucent,
trailing on the vine, a heft that threatens to fall. You need the rub
of one thing against another. A bright circle of light hitched to the upper right.
A panoply proportioned by the corner of a barn, its dark red pigment a mix
of linseed oil, rust, milk, combed crow of a rooster, the color of necessity,
harsh winters. A red that soaks into the grain of memory, finds you home.