Written for:  Sunday Whirl #451

Words:  roots, yes, valve, left, seam, next, treat, speed, fade, wheel, watch, bleed

This poem is a rusty
wheel, stuck in
roots outside of
an old faded farmhouse,
at the next left
on Watcher’s Road.
Perhaps it was part
of an old carriage–
no valves, slow speed.

This poem entreats
your imagination’s
seams to open wide,
and see a different
time of life. Yes,
take a guess of how
this sere, bleeding
land used to look.

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