Rusted Dreams
How am I going to have a farm,
now, that I am this old?
Stiff lower back, gray hair,
knees cracking, and creaking,
rust, with medications.
Thinking, because of the old plow,
abandoned in the yard,
of the antique store.
Nostalgic decoration,
that’s the way I feel sometimes.
I miss the yurt,
I never lived in
and the Kyrgyz,
of Central Asia,
the smell of goats,
family around the fire.
I may never live with
the Lakota or the Cheyenne
on the Great Plains,
but I could still have a farm,
and some sanity, with fresh air.
Tenderly coaxing the soil,
reaping the rewards,
of hard work,
getting up the same time,
without driving to the city.
I’d be taking care of animals,
an occasional cow
stepping on my foot,
but no insults, no pressure,
from the boss.
I may yet buy a farm,
just for spite!
Fighting against the rust.
Time, for me to take another pill,
blood pressure,
missing the outdoors.
© Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree
