The Red Wheelbarrow

"The Red Wheelbarrow"

William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.


My Interpretation (not true)

   In an old farmhouse in the countryside sat an old red wheelbarrow; however, nobody knew it was old because of the new glossy coat it had been given from the first spring rain. The only hint of its antiquity was the rusty handlebars that Father had installed decades before. Despite this, it shone with happiness. The wheelbarrow hoped that someday its Master would come home and claim it.
   Back in its youth, the red wheelbarrow was surrounded by animals of all kinds: newborn lambs stumbling awkwardly with their unproportionally lanky legs, the proud rooster with his iridescent feathers strutting around with his head and tail held bristling.
   Now, the gamut of gamboling animals had been reduced to nothing more than a few simple and stupid white chickens. The wheelbarrow reminisced nostalgically, recalling the blazing summer days when it and its Master would travel to the creek, where they would spend all afternoon collecting plain old rocks to bring home to Master’s bemused mother. Those days are gone, thought the poignant wheelbarrow.
   Its Master had grown up, slowly ignoring the wheelbarrow’s prompts to play. Its Master had grown up, drifting further away from home. Its Master had grown up, putting on a strange uniform, never to return home, they said, until after eight years. Eight years came and went, but the wheelbarrow never stopped hoping.
   Someday, its Master would come home and sift his now calloused fingers through the collection of hundreds of miscellaneous rocks, and smile, remembering at last those long, yet short days at that forest creek.
   The chickens clucked softly, pretending to sympathize with the wheelbarrow’s melancholy yet propitious disposition.
   Someday.

Here is the real backstory: http://www.shmoop.com/red-wheelbarrow/