To Photography
By Brittany S., Palatine, IL
You chased me through the maze deep in the state of
Kentucky when I was two years old.
In-between the cornrows and tractors
that carry the carrots from last season.
Once orange but brown took over.
They knew they were headed to rot when
the John Deere tractor plowed
away their roots
and buried them to the ground.
They struggle to resist the wind to touch
the top of squared-off leaves.
Farmer Chris drives by and tips his hat.
You freeze-framed his mustache to show the hair
of 70 years.
The grays remind the cows of the barns with stalls,
brand new.
The spotlight covers his overalls to show the confusion
of old age.
The cross-stitch hypnotizes you and you
snap a photo of my Barney blanket.
Stains of green beans in the corner
and now my new car that breaks a piece of glass and shines,
a new mirror hung on the wall of my faded bedroom where
I grew up.
You climbed the steps of the stairs,
creaking to the top where the gray changed to red.
Sometimes you hid from the Tylenol
because you were scared I would have a headache,
the piles of papers that needed to be written touched
the lightbulbs.
You were there when the clocks danced on the ceiling fans.
The legs of dark maple syrup spun them and
your lens cap focused on the numbers that fell
onto the down feathers.
Ticking the time away under the Kentucky sunset.
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