The tractor sits in the rusted field, the grass and weeds waist high
it hasn’t moved since ’69, the last year that they tried
vegetables and raspberries grew almost every year
the farmers’ market claimed the berries, the veges fed the deer.
Best friends, close enough, it’s how they held each others thoughts
so the visit to the best friends’ home with flowers that he brought
for the wife with laughter and a quick embrace,
without knowing loneliness can have a smile on its’ face
Three days, maybe four while the visit seemed at peace
gave room for walks and quiet talks that gave her some release
while he framed the door and set the sill, they wandered in the field
or leaned against the tractors’ wheel the ghost crop still concealed.
He went to town for lumber, a few hours at the most
coming home he brought the rain, and half a dozen posts
that evening was a quiet time they all listened to the rain
when they said goodnight and went to bed he wasn’t privy to their pain.
The next day was a wall of gray, the rain like liquid steel
the tractor in the meadow you’d have to find by feel
when the guest was late for breakfast, he went to find out why
and found him on the tractors’ seat, rain muffling his cries.
He said that he was homesick and was ready to go home
so he left for New York city; once more he was alone
I miss his singing, his songs were mine, our songs were touched with pain
I listen to our songs sometimes and see the tractor in the rain
3/13/12 Michael Brown