Imagery Not Imagery
It's strange
that all this is still so clear to me, now thal
the summer has long since fled and time has had its
way. A grindstone stands where the bleeding tree
stood, just outside the kitchen door, and now if
an oriole sings in the elm, its song seems to die up in
the leaves, a silvery dust. The flower garden is prim,
the house a gleaming white, and the pale fence
across the yard stands straight and spruce. But
sometimes (like right now), as I sit in the cool,
green-draped parlor, the grindstone begins to turn,
and time with all its changes is ground away - and
I remember Doodle