the chipped paint on the barn

was discussed by the women at the salon,

in hushed tones of amber and crimson.

like treacle, sticky against the roof

of my mouth, they smacked tongue

to de peanut butter their chops.

my dream dog, a joke,

bernese mountain dog with a spoonful

of nut paste slurping slobber

on my clean wood floors.

hardly visible anymore: the paint.

chipped off in totality by the hail storm

later that day,

now just grey boards.

and they spoke recently of the fashion

of not painting.

and so: nature is healing.

ⴲ.