Scythe

In the barn demoted to garage, the ax in a cherry stump can’t be budged. Daylight perforates siding despite the battered armor of license plates— corroded colors, same state: decay, their dates the only history of whoever tilled the soil and left, as a welcome, the skull of a possum nailed to the door, and the trail of lime to the torn sack in a corner where cobwebs festoon a scythe. Rusted sharp, it sings when he grips its splintery handle, swings, and crowns topple from Queen Anne’s lace.