a pail of cool, clean water
sits on the floor
waiting for a reason
to be spilled.
its surface mirrors
a single bulb
hung from a braided cord
in the tool shed
my dad took me behind
one too many times.
he’s gone
but not forgotten,
leaving a scar
which runs like a river
just beneath the surface
hidden from view
but forever
ripped and rippled.
through faded pine walls
the dull echo
of my daughter’s excited shouts
pulls me back into now.
i’ve watered the flowers
of my mind
for far too long
hoping their scent
might erase the stale
stench of ghosts,
but such is the stuff
of dreams
or wishful thinking.
i pick up the pail
of crisp, clean water
from the floor
careful not to spill a drop
and step
into warm spring sunshine
on my way
to water
the hydrangeas.
