Our picnic bench, which I wanted so badly three summers ago, lies alone. Decaying with neglect. Used only a handful of times. Two picnics. One marshmallow and hot dog roast. Watermelon spitting. The occasional snack. But mostly a horizontal space for young flowers, cat naps, and chicken roosts. Slowly fading in color and strength.
"Crunch." John Deere metal is stronger than the brittle dry wood. And quickly the leg falls. No longer horizontal it serves only as the occasional safe chicken resting spot.
But the autumn rush did not allow repair or removal. And so the snow builds. Climbing. Piling. Sloping. But beautiful.
