The tractor just sits
As if it were born there,
Older than the small shed, that shares its space

Four wheels show age
The farmers feet

Rust all shades of rust
Some spots black, like the old man’s skin

Cancer to the sun as a pesticide to the insect
And the rain falls, a funnel from the heavens
Only the tractor gets water, only the tractor shows its age

Slowly moving turtlish, the caretaker feeds his cows
Like his sons, sent to slaughter the real world
Nighty three years old he labors rain into snow

His first wife passed years back, his second one too
Daughters to mothers sleet to rain
They care for him

And somewhere
The flower just sits
As if it were planted there
Older than the small man, that shares its space

(The original poem’s visual presentation was lost with Word Press setting. Hope to correct this soon)

Copyright, Christopher Leet 2011

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