A spark plug coated with dirt and rust,
two plastic water bottles, squashed flat,
a pipe fitting, a piece of log chain
and one wheel off a toy truck.
Bits of wire, both thick and thin,
and a handle for a gate,
bent nails, the file we used
for the horses’ hooves,
the bail of a bucket, maybe it was
the bucket we used when we milked Dolly,
or was it Honey, sweet Jerseys both.
A scrap of chicken wire, pliers that look
like they came from an ancient archeological dig,
and shiny scraps of glass that glint
like tiny mirrors to when this garden spot
was the home of tractor, mower, tools
until one day the wind just pushed it
ever so gently into a pile of gray boards,
brown rusty tin and things
we left behind.