antique brass hardware

on-the-dykes

She sat the on dyke-wall rocks, speckled in shades of granite and antique brass. The baked-brown dyke grasses undulated towards the Bay’s mud flats. The dykelands held its breath between tides, waiting for the rushing in or out. Water scurrying up fingers towards aboiteaux. Twelve hours later, the ancient wood straining to let the wayward water flow back. She thought of the generations who had looked out towards the Point and the far shore of the Bay. She thought of her family’s gazes.

She opened her journal and wrote:

Antique Brass

worn wood

smoothed by awl

and many hands

faded egg-wash painting

roses, fairies, vegetables, fruit

expectations, dreams, duties

years of holding hopes

linens, quilts, blankets

curls and braids of hair, baby shoes

embraces, farewells, waves

with a lock of antique brass

to shut out the moths and

shut in the memories

I was thinking back to days when attic was the world; the trunk my geography. The antique brass lock opened with a jiggle. Up rose the smell of must, old roses, and dreams. If life could be as simple. But I hide the complexity of those days, until she screams at me to remember.

Written for Color Your World: 120 Days of Crayola: antique brass

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6 thoughts on “antique brass hardware

  1. Suzanne January 3, 2016 / 12:23 am

    Maybe you’ll find a way to release the past and shut her up for good in 2016 but without having to crawl back into that trunk. :)

    Like

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