Cleaning out grandmother’s estate
we found, hidden behind old hoses,
dusty boxes and a broken bicycle,
two pieces of wood nailed together,
but the rusty nail holding them together
was loose, almost broken, allowing
the pieces of wood to swivel
at right angles. We suspected it
must have been something
for a sports game, or perhaps to hang
a scarecrow in the garden. We couldn’t
bring ourselves to throw it out, but
it remains a mystery.
Many many poems could be written about estate sales. Some would hang together be a rusty nail.
*by...sheesh...I need a comment editor. :)
Nice poem that captures the essence of what is going on: one cannot possibly know everything about someone, especially someone close to us. Some things will always remain a mystery -carried to the grave. Could it also mean unfinished business? Things left unsaid?
I like the pondering left in this one.
I also enjoyed the pondering at the end. You captured it...
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