Saturday, September 17, 2011


"You need a new wheelbarrow," my neighbor remarks
watching me trundle my shallow, rusting
cart to the curb, orphaned limbs and sticks
protruding like morning hair fresh
from an unmade bed.  "I've a better one
that a friend brought for our yard sale."

I'm not impressed.  He doesn't know that when
I lift the handles, the weight shifts
from my hands to those of my father sleeping
beneath the debris of a Missouri winter.
He doesn't know that this handcart
carries the fragments of my mind, the tributes

housed in the rubbish of winters turned
to spring, similes and metaphors waiting
the right poem, fractured lines
of hyperbole and hope, alliterative alleys
of childhood discards.  How could he see
beyond rust, the sonnet reclaimed? 


  1. You might not be impressed (with your neighbor's offer of a new wheelbarrow), but I AM (with your poem)! The story, the poetry living inside those rusty handles drew me right in and held me captive. Thank you!

  2. This is bookmarked as pure poetry inspiration for me.

    Thank you for speaking heart into my very busy day.

  3. Hey, I commented over at THC, but this is really good! It has all my favorite elements, including conversation and literary elements. Bravo!

  4. visiting from THC... really wonderful poem.

  5. Rosanne, beautiful poem! It will stay with me. I love the idea of the weight shifting from your hand to those of your father, and of the cart still containing the memories and thoughts that feed your writing. I especially like the way this poem plays with the subject set out by this journal. Beautiful. Good job!

  6. Thanks for sharing this with me Rosanne. I read it in the midst of a busy day and was reminded to pay attention to my priorities.