Man with a Yellow Pail
I could almost hear the pail squeaking
in his hand as he walked up the hill
toward a house, maybe his own house.
It was late March, and it was either mallards
or wood frogs quacking from the vernal pond.
I did not know what was in the pail,
dandelions or forsythia or fish worms,
maybe animal guts for some cheerless reading.
The man raised his free arm
into the sky, palm and fingers tilted upwards.
The air smelled like rain pocking dusty weeds,
and the moon floated low in the west,
everything on edge, waiting to spill.
© 2007 University of North Carolina Greensboro