WANING HALF MOON SETS in the proud blue horizon of late morning on June’s summer solstice over Monastery Hill on the backside of the old building of ancient stones taken onsite in the roaring 1920’s. Now Cherry Tree matures, her wrinkled bark peels, branches unpruned grow wild and high. I wonder who may climb a ladder or make pies like so many summers, captured as rings buried in her trunk. Now nearby iron frames and tension bolts rust, sun-bleached ropes sag their stretch where sheets and fresh linens once waved but knots now fray the end, black molds weave in fibers and rot the strength of past laughter. Now a moss-capped concrete retaining wall holds imprinted seams from wood terraced forms removed one level at a time to make gardens to grow vegetables, fresh and canned under pressure, the rich soils now hide beneath mats of crabgrass and weeds. Sprinklers stand quiet, like dry sentinels who wait for their cue. Now empty gloves lay still near wasps who fight and tumble …
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