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.