PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Shed Weather

Door sticks —

I shoulder it open and

the whole place jolts awake,

spiders scattering like dropped nails.

Jump —

a hammer clatters from the bench,

then I’m thinking of the time

          lightning hit the jacaranda

        and the yard glowed

purple for a heartbeat.

Back —

dust motes swirling

as if rehearsing a coup,

a saw leaning crooked,

its teeth catching the thin light like it’s hungry.

Sudden pivot —

I remember your voice in the doorway once,

soft as a misplaced glove,

asking if I’d seen the secateurs.

I hadn’t.

I still haven’t.

They’re probably sulking behind the paint tins.

Jump —

a wasp strafes past my ear,

and suddenly I’m twelve again,

running from a hive under the eaves,

tripping over the hose,

laughing because fear hadn’t

learned its full vocabulary yet.

Back —

the shed smells of oil and old rain,

and something else —

a kind of waiting.

Another leap —

the rake’s handle taps the wall,

a tiny knock,

as if someone polite is asking to be let out.

Then the whole place stills —

but my mind keeps ricocheting,

bouncing off tin, timber, memory,

trying to catch whatever

thought just sprinted past

and ducked behind the mower.

.