Boxes piled in the back of the beat-up truck,
Rustic red she'd always said, she didn't need something new.
She smacked the hood as the engine roared,
No more reminiscing to the past. There are places to be.
No time to float into the warm sun, and bring up all the good he'd done.
Those times were gone, and there was no more to be done.
Drove past the rustic leaves waving her goodbye.
The rotten apples still left on the trees.
She plucked the roots from the soil, in search of better ground.
The grass isn't always greener, but she knew things would turn around.
