Makeover

The windmill
turns in shadow
casting a black-eyed susan
on the barn wall.

Along the field,
a newsletter flaps
revealing
the woodcut grace
of women gathered
in a yard.

Headlines infer
they share a passion
for goat cheese
medallions, some Anjou pears.

Both go on sale
at The Peddler's Market
late this afternoon
but it's still a.m.

as the steel flower
spins faster
and this breeze kicks up
keeping pace
with a young horse drinking water.

His stone trough
is battered
like my porcelain tub;
and I stand here,
Sprint cell in hand,
waiting for the glazer
to call.

White or almond,
I haven't decided
on the shade
but somehow feel

the sun
sees me floating
beneath the glare
re-emerging
in tones of sepia,

restored
to a spare presence
of unbleached muslin
and candlestick phone.