a faded, rusty red
the color of

the gate we would sit on
as the sun set behind the woods
and wait to catch sight of deer

the coffee tin resting on the pipe
coming out of the ground
to protect our feet as we hung towels on the 
L-shaped clothing line
a black widow made her home there
she was smart, she was safe

the fallen, wild persimmons
we dared each other to try
to see if our mouths would
pucker up from dryness

the old truck bed in the back yard
that Bear was chained to 
and he would sleep outside
in the cold dirt

the pit of clay
we trekked through the woods
to look for quicksand
or carve our initials into the small hills

the almost-ripe blackberries
our father mixed into
a cup of snow
and a tablespoon of sugar

the aged swing-set at grandfather's house
where he would keep his yard groomed
and change his mind about the color of the
lattice each summer

a fading, rusty red
each year