Rouge Barb / Spring Sours

From within the frost-frozen, bare-boarded, shed within its loosely hung zee-braced door agape the spring light peeked. Warming the woodsheds King’s pine planks toasting the ten penny nails popping the planks to a toe-stubbing height. Door slamming dashes through the obstacle course of cord, tinder, rake and hoe; to the semi attached outhouse. Draws half down, butt bitten by March’s wind; the two holer waits, lye bucket at the base. Curled, yellow-brown, newspaper pages from 1890, the shade of Uncle George’s pipe stained teeth, wiggle in the wind; as do I when with a holler as breeze to bottom freeze dries. A half flashed mad dash to the kitchen door is halted; awestruck at the gapping door to the kitchen garden. Raspberry-red, tit tipped rhubarb buds and stalks, warmed by the sheltered spring sun; set my mouth to drool. A waylaid girl child in transit.