The Last Things I'll Remember
by Joyce Sutphen
The partly open hay barn door, white frame around the darkness,
the broken board, small enough for a child
to slip through.
Walking in the cornfields in late July, green tassels overhead,
the slap of flat leaves as we pass, silent
and invisible from any road.
Hollyhocks leaning against the stucco house, peonies heavy
as fruit, drooping their deep heads
on the dog house roof.
Lilac bushes between the lawn and the woods,
a tractor shifting from one gear into
the next, the throttle opened,
the smell of cut hay, rain coming across the river,
the drone of the hammer mill,
milk machines at dawn.
The above poem would make a good writing prompt, I think. What are the last things you'll remember? Will they be things from your childhood? or more recent things? What will you remember?
This weekend was a mad scurrying around, trying to get things in such a state that I don't have to think about much other than writing, maybe a bit of photography, this week. (My glamorous LWOP week).
Maybe more importantly than getting the housework done, I was also trying to reduce my level of anxiety. Toward that, these images of my little metal buddha, my stone bowl (empty):
And lastly, this short video I made when the wind came up, and the blossoms began to fall like snow. The new neighbours moved in this weekend, and there are children. You'll hear them in the background.