by Greg Gregory
Rainclouds roll changing masks of the season
over hushed trees, across the white rail fence
into a darkening foreground meadow
of thick grass and thirsty heads of teasel.
The old truck sits empty,
abandoned in the grass.
Its blue-green paint, a faded tablet
written on by shifting tones of the sky.
A light wind shifts through the trees.
The grass and teasel mime against the old truck.
A still life. A life still.
The sky breathes.
The truck belongs to the meadow.
It is married to darkness and light.
It shimmers in its aqua shadows.
Its solidity dissolves. It is part of the sky.
There is nothing you can send me
except the past and future
with an old truck
resting under the changing clouds.