Rain barrel near the back porch

 

January 23, 1978
 
It must have sat there since before my grandfather was born,
rusted rings holding together the splintered wood,
too many years collecting the drips rainstorms delivered,
like a dream catcher reflecting the gray sky
as the drops fed its open mouth,
my reflection showing in the surface each time I look in,
with me expecting to see something else,
some vague notion of something I feel must be there,
the sparkle of streetlights reflected in it as night
as I climb up the steps to the porch,
flowers in season spouting up around its bottom as if by design.
I keep wanting to ask who put it there and when,
attempting to stir up some memory of someone
who might have heard the tale from before I was born,
but none had memory they could give me any more than I already had,
that barrel having been there before them, too,
filled with gas lamps before the electric lamps came,
and likely firelight before that, sitting where it has always sat,
back in that corner near the steps,
full of things we could only imagine.