The old shed door speaks mystery
Where locks and latches once clamped
Tightly shut, now the door can swing open,
Proclaiming there is nothing to hide:.
Stacks of clay flower pots, a shovel, an ax,
Three bent buckets, a couple of rakes
Sleep inside, too old for their labors.
A rusty bicycle with a basket but no
Hand brakes, leather strap hung on a nail
Beside a beekeepers canvas hood
Burlap bags have fallen in a heap
A nest for chipmunks or squirrels
A pile of black walnut hulls and shells scattered