One bin is a big black barrel that spins and spins
and one is a barrel for collecting rain water
and there are scattered cups and tubs
amidst the matted grass, half-closed lids
full of tomato rinds and avocado skins.
She shows me what's inside the barrel,
but it's too cold to smell the earth
so I focus my eyes toward the back,
a shifting debris of fruits and vegetables.
Come fall, she's in the yard tossing leaves
and sticks expertly in a bin, gleefully cracking
the frozen skin of the water fountain,
or hauling a glitter of pebbles to make a fresh path.
She used to spend her time collecting rocks,
to be dispersed around the yard.
For a whole year she stopped at every corner
to eye the shape and tone of every stone.
My mother's even laid her own bricks,
now a lopsided path of orange and red,
embedded in the earth's furrowed cheek.
By the slabs of pale and uneven rock,
the thunder of a barrel turning.