The Ash Grove

The ash grove we planted is still there;

Dirt under our nails, cricks in our backs, but

We planted all thoserows of trees that day.

They have grown tall with thick, rough, trunks.

The diamonds in the bark are all but gone,

the ridges so deep.

The Tin Lizze is still rusting in the tall grass, but

In a month, a man will come, take it to his garage,

Sand it down,

Rebuild the engine, and the rest.

I’m sorry, but

He will not paint it the pearl violet you always loved.