Old faded tires lean against
railroad tie posts, dried
gold and brown wisps of grasses
softening the black, sunken rounding edges.
Our garden tiller stands
motionless, framed by crisp blue sky, in the shade of a
yellow turning poplar;
It’s teeth stopped but still biting the light brown earth.
Clothes on the line dance slightly
to the waltz of bees humming around emptied
honey frames; every drop left to
their winter store.
Olive green tomato vines, now
barren, cling to golden, dry paper
corn stalks; nearby, the solid pile
of dense, sweet smelling pine logs
stands ready to burn bright and hot in the coming months.
A large blue tractor scratching
the sleepy, dry ground squeals with
each rotation of it’s wheels like fifty cranes
squawking as the dust takes flight.
Time for rest.
Time for quiet.
Time for snow.
I have a plaque that reads ;
LIFE STARTS
ALL OVER AGAIN
WHEN IT
GETS CRISP
IN THE
FALL
Does that mean the earth or us ? Probably both 🙂
That’s awesome! And to go along with that, my Granny always said that a fresh blanket of snow “covers a mult-i-tude of sin!”