Progress doesn’t bog you down, weigh
heavily and clutter the landscape, rather it
cleans as it goes into endless time and open
space to balance silence with the sweet
promise of convenience, making room
to plan ahead, options other than gridlock.
We cleaned the shed of useless history
saved just in case, like old farmers do—found
that photographs of young innocence fade
just like we do, relieved to let them go.
Twenty years we’ve done without
three dumpsters full, another ecosystem
for mud-dobbers and black widows,
rats and feral cats beneath a leaky roof.
Next the shed goes, before starting over.
drycrikjournal 