Potting Shed


Memories are the canvas…experiences the brush-strokes. This poem, though short, packs a ton of emotion and feeling into its small place on the web. It is a beautiful canvas with bold brushstrokes.

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Polly

In the potting shed
the scent of ancient creosote
wafts in the heavy summer heat.
Years of grandpa, pipe in mouth,
leaning against the wall as
grandma wielded the black
brush and yelled ‘get back you
kids,’ followed by her gap-tooth grin.
Her energy lives within the still-
standing walls …
no creosote
now.

Polly Robinson © 2013

Potting shed

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One thought on “Potting Shed

  1. That was the perfect picture to accompany your poem, Polly.

    When I close my eyes I can almost hear the grandma’s voice. In my mind it’s a little raspy. Perhaps she was a smoker as well? Or maybe she’s getting over a bad cold.

    But the grandkids know to mind her as soon as she tells them what to do.

    Like

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