by Dawn Terpstra

Decay curled around your outbuildings like a wild thing claiming the yard. It squatted near the hedges beneath afternoon sun. Weeds grew, metal rusted. Old plows and tractors salvaged for parts piled like corpses. The house withered, then its joints gave beneath a sway-backed roof. Vacancy, except for a dozen Mason jars glistening in the window of the summer kitchen. Three neat rows packed tight with smooth-skinned pickles, dill heads bursting like fireworks against the glass. The artistry of your skilled hands passed from your mother, her mother. Beautiful beyond blight. Your husband passed quietly in his La-Z-Boy. A month later, flames consumed it all. A backhoe buried what you couldn’t. God knows the order of things. Earth, seed, rain, and heat.

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Dawn Terpstra lives in Iowa where she leads a corporate communications team. She holds two masters’ degrees and conducted fieldwork in Micronesia. Her poetry appears in print and online, including Third Wednesday, Neologism, Eastern Iowa Review, and Telepoem Booth Iowa. She enjoys explorations—landing in a new place, driving down gravel roads, or walking through the timber with her chocolate lab.