She trudges across the crispy grass, The dew has not yet hardened, But the blades themselves seem stiff With bitter fear of the aging evening. She swings the black bucket, She drags it through the rusted leaves, She uses both arms, muscles tensed. It’s heavy, not plastic. Metal. It need to be metal, she thinks, she ponders. Her grimy hands, stronger than most, Grip the shovel. She stands, her ironically Pink Shoes are turning grey. A photographic moment, caught by camera, or words, the green evening light, her skin glowing orange, if she’d noticed. The dying tree, the moulded, orange-peel soil, The vivid evening, the frozen smells. She trudges back, backwards, digging her pink heals Into solid ground. She doesn’t drag but hauls the load, leaving Deep tracks, brown wounds, black tears, in the Shredded lawn. She might have cared, If she’d noticed.
Excellent job with the imagery! It could use just a little tightening up, and you'll have one stellar piece... thanks for sharing it... I enjoyed thoroughly My favorite lines... love the technique on that last one especially.
Love the last five lines, and the way the last two lines are seperate...that adorable little couplet which finishes off the poem perfectly.
