the past comes toward me

a tea-kettle in the woods

there before me lies

the rusted remains of a tea-kettle,

the spout still enough itself

to speak to me of home and family,

for most of a century

it must have just sat there 

in the leaves that fall,

a forgotten tool,

yet in the curve of the spot

I feel the love

that held it

that used it,

usually it’s a well-preserved section of chimney

that speaks to me of the fire

that held the family whole,

today a kettle helps the past come toward me. 

by Henry H. Walker

December 17, ‘17