All the Shelves

All the Shelves
by Gabe Redel


Is it that people are mud hills?
Is it that the rain falls over the hill
and washes pieces of ourselves into the great river,
and the river carries them away,
far, far away until we can no longer see
what it is that we had lost?

Are we the trees collecting plastic bags
and old tire swings
that blow in the wind
with no child, no teenager, no youth
for us to remember?
Only cracked and flaking walls
with a white stripe around the circle.

The car that rusts in the weeds
that once had a future ahead of it.

The old shingles on the farmhouse
that spin out of place
by the passing wind
and land in the backyard
and continue to tumble toward
the small pond
that holds lilies and frogs in its hand.

Dreams that collect as the day caps them in
and twists the lid down
and sets them on the shelf,
all the shelves.
The lines of dreams
that can be seen through the glass
like peaches
and green beans and pickles.