Wild Gourds

By John I. Blair

On the unkempt, sandy lot
Behind my Aunt Bill’s house
Uncle Ora built his metal shop
Of tile and cement blocks.

A pair of sash hung windows
Around a simple door
Lit the front, provided entry,
Gave its roughness symmetry.

A shot from 1922
Shows Ora in the doorway,
Young, in ragged overalls,
Brown as a berry, strong as steel.

I have another taken yesterday,
Worn masonry,
Boarded openings,
Cracks along the roofline.

Ora’s gone since 1949,
Missed by his daughter and his sons,
Missed by those alive today
Who never knew him,

Missed in some mute wise
By the locked building that survives,
By the wild gourds that grow there yet
On vines beside its walls.

©2011 John I. Blair

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