For Chester
A little story about true love
There’s a house on the hill, just past the Carter’s barn
There’s nothing special about it
It’s just a grey clapboard box with a sloping front porch
A sagging clothesline to one side
Hazel Mae lives there — alone, now that Chester’s gone, save for a few skinny cats
There are geranium cuttings in the window that list to one side in mason jars of murky green water
And a weather vane — a rusted rooster missing most of its tail — creaks up on the roof
There are roses outside that tumble along the fence — long gone wild
Because flowers are too much work now for Hazel Mae
Except, of course, for Chester’s sunflowers
There are twelve of them — straight rebar stems and welded petals
All of them rusting a little more with each passing season
Most of the yellow paint has gone
But hour by hour
no matter the weather
or the season
Hazel Mae will heave herself from her chair on the porch
Walk down the path to the flowers
And turn their metal faces to the sun
For Chester
