Tilting to the West [Poetry]

Tilting To The West

My window overlooks our immense vegetable garden, 
reminding me of work to be done after the morning dishes—
weed the cabbages, carrots, and sweet peas; transplant more
seedlings: romaines, sweet peppers, radishes, spinach...
Probably rain by noon...maybe wait on the sprinklers.

I wipe my hands on extra-tight work jeans, need to lose twenty.
Moving at half-speed, already yawning for a nap; it isn't even noon.
My eyes move over rocky clumps of earth and dandelion tufts,
to where the weathered 2 x 4's lean, tilting to the west.

Our drifting scarecrow winks with his one good eye and a wry smile.
His flannel has been sun-bleached from denim to periwinkle.
Periwinkle...the color of my eyes when my husband first met me.
Decades later, my eyes betrayed to the color of concrete that matches
what-use-to-be my long, chestnut hair now a practical gray bob.

My husband hugs my waist. "Whatcha thinking?" He rests his chin
on my head, as he looks out the window. 
           "Ahhhh... Strawman?
I've been meaning to take 'im down. Ol' boy don't scare them
crows one bit, I'll see to it after work."

He pecks a wrinkled, well-kissed cheek and reaches for his
favorite suede hat.
                        "Don't tear 'im down," I whisper.
                                                                                          The screen door clicks.


Outside, feathers flap and flutter to crow their victory. Ebony-colored
thieves scatter around Strawman's limbs, grabbing hair, prying the
plastic buttons, and ripping an already-tattered shirt.

Like my falling bird-keeper, I too, have faded from fresh to frail;
another weary soul tilting to the west.

** Originally published in The Panhandler, 1994 

 Photo credit: Shutterstock, Inc.