June 21, 2011 § Leave a comment
Honey scent of tall rye grass, dandelions growing out of control, and poppies with an unusual raggedness to their petals. Now it’s a toolshed with a corrugated roof warped where the rain slanted hard in Winter. Wrinkled pages of coloring books and old paperback novels sit in a rusty wheelbarrow. Months of sun have come to dry things out, leaving that private mulchy thickness to the air inside. Two high windows north and south never opened. But the door slides wide – still – for wild imaginings.