It Depends
The second mowing, tedded, bailed, removed.
The field left skinned and barren, desert like,
as autumn winds blow over ancient farm
machinery scattered randomly across
the meadow like the bones of dinosaurs.
I wonder, will they come to life next spring
in time to lime or will the timeless grass
grow up around limp tires and fading paint?
It depends. Will aging farmers rise from winter’s
repose to mow once more, mend the snow
bent fence and aid the laboring ewe, force
their aching joints to grasp the hoe and strike
the rocky ground again? If not, who will
restore the ageless tractor’s roar, once more?
#582 October 2013
My comment sailed off into the ether before I had finished. Trying again: I like your subtle internal rhymes, but at the end of the poem I am left wanting another stanza.
ReplyDelete(I think I have finally achieved the method for blogging in....blogging on???
Sharon,
ReplyDeleteThank you Sharon for your comment. How and when to end a poem is always a problem. The way the story unfolds, another stanza depends on the decision of the aging farmers. A new stanza would have to speak to aging, motivation, ability, family support, etc. A less personal approach would be to weigh whether the farm was viable in 2015 economically or whether s/o would do it out of love, like writing poetry. Another stanza has not come to me the way "Fox and Hare" kept demanding another stanza. Marshall