A red trowel on
brown grass, left by my son when
cleaning my gutters,
discarded carelessly, so I return it to its
empty place.
Far be it from me to not be
grateful for all my sons do, keeping my
home in order and
in good repair, but they are
just not my husband, who
kept everything ‘just so’ with
love and care and pride in his
many skills; he
never complained about the
overwhelming amount of work required to
preserve our old home and was
quick to repair what needed
repairing or fixing or building. My
sons have their own homes,
their own families, and
until I die, they will do their
very best to balance the demands of their lives and maintenance on my
weathered old house – hammering boards like playing a
xylophone, singing while they burn branches in my
yard, remembering their dad as they
zip around on his green lawn tractor, trailing love and honor for him as they go.
Copyright ©2026 Lisa Paul. All rights reserved.
Written in response to Meeting the Bar; First to Last Letters challenge provided by Laura Bloomsbury.
Poetry Rules:
the letters are sequential
26 lines
each line begins with a letter of the alphabet
A Little Bit of Everything, With Love 