a half a fifth of brandy
sits quietly on the shelf...
a tired old hat hanging
on a forgotten peg.
the flower garden bare,
the windowpane sighs.
the old rusted spicket,
covered by the spider's web.
empty boxes in the closet,
filled with nothing that remains.
wood stacked against the porch,
even the old dog knows.
letters falling from the mailbox,
the ink wet with rain.
my hand buried by the wellhouse,
my heart buried neath the gravel!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You've sure got me pondering hard over this one pal! ! ! I like it, alot. I'm just not certain I understand the entirety of it's depth! (must be my lil' brain! ! !) ... but, no matter, it's a great poem!