Rusted Dreams

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

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s