The Garden Shed

by Justin Charron
Home now to discarded toys:
To soldiers, and cowboys,
Childhood hopes, long forgotten dreams.
Clumps of grass, empty rows,
Tools hang from cracking handles.
Rotten stumps of fence posts,
Moss creeps across the ridge line,
Along the edge, twisted tin strapping
Struggles against the curling tarpaper.
Dutch door, once inviting and open,
Stands, bolted closed behind the hasp
Guarding stores of suet and seed.
Plank ends arch like sunsets
Driving against the nails,
Leaves of paint peel back,
Baring the decay of winters past.
There’s no garden anymore.
There hasn’t been for years.

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