The Old Rusty Gate
It's long past time when I should contemplate
the need to scrape and paint the old rusty gate.
My dear wife asked me to fix it before she died,
for in our yard and garden, she had taken pride.
I've been overwhelmed with sorrow and guilt.
Too many times I's put off having it rebuilt.
After last night's storm, the hinges are broken
and it's as if to me, her gentle voice had spoken.
"My love, don't bother fixing that old rusty gate,
for I know doing repairs is something you hate.
Its squeaking didn't bother me, not in the least,
but you insisted that one day you'd fix that beast."
My mind must be playing tricks on this old man.
How can I hear her? I can't begin to understand.
I must be imagining what she'd be saying to me
because she had a love for life and a gift of esprit.
Tomorrow, I'll take down that gate and fix it up
after I've rocked on the porch with a second cup.
I'll make it look good and stop it from squeaking
and replace the garden hose that's been leaking.
Soon that old rust laden gate will make her proud.
Wrought iron scraped and painted, I've avowed.
I picture her walking through it, wearing a grin.
My heart still beats with love for her, deep within.
June 23, 2022
One In Five Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment