The Farm

THE FARM
By Tom Sabel

I drove my old memories
To the old farm today.
It’s gotten so old
But I go anyway.

Will I find my spirit
In the place that I live?
Does the old farm still hold it
It has nothing to give?
 

The windmill that turned
And squawked in the night,
Like a mother of sparrows
Just learning their flight.
 

Elderly buildings once
Bright blue and red.
Are soon to fall over
Because they are dead.


Spaces are empty
Since they ran out of time,
Grass getting taller
When they age, it’s a crime.


The swing set
That cooled me on hot summer days
A blue sky would touch me
In so many ways.
 

Our tractor stopped running
Made a home in the weeds.
Rusted iron, cracked rubber
No one tends to his needs.

Drove away on the path
Where I once rode the bus
Then I looked in the mirror
And I could see us.

Taking flite on the swings
Dad was out in the corn,
Like we had every summer
Since the day I was born.

The chickens and cattle
 ran around here and there,
Mom picked through the garden
With her seat in the air.

Slowed down to look back
Even heard someone talk.
Hoped to see mother
Or father’s livestock.

My eyes saw the old place
The weeds and the truck.
That place is still aged
Guess it’s all out of luck.

A spirit’s still there
And it carries my name.
What I see there is aging
But it still feels the same.