Below the green gazebo,
a gingham tablecloth held down
by fresh-cut watermelon slices
the color of my sister’s lip gloss.
Sticky fingers slide steel strings;
picking was a family thing
and what couldn’t be harvested,
was left to rot,
next year’s early gardening.
When things go to pot,
I bury my soul in a scrapbook
with the photographs
and the moss,
and I smell the edges
for a whiff of Estée Lauder,
a puff of chimney smoke,
or a glimpse of the old Ford pickup
sliding on driveway rocks
in the rearview of my memory.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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