Janet, at Another Porch, http://anotherporch.blogspot.com/2011/09/tiny-breeze.html, went walkabout with her camera. She placed a collage of photos from her walk on her post. Clicking on the collage will enlarge it somewhat, enough to see the birth of this poem.
by Mike Patrick
They come here to die;
old farm implements
that left their hearts in the land.
This simple place,
nestled between a creek and an overgrown fence,
becomes their burial ground.
Within this hallowed acre,
untended, they pass away.
A graveyard it is,
and they, their own tombstones;
sticking up out of the weeds,
still seeking the sun they worked beneath;
dreaming of one more day
behind a tractor or a horse.
Slowly, they are covered by growing things.
They like that;
that karma of returning to their roots.
Conceived in graceful lines of art and utility,
the steel, cold in death,
melts into the ground it once tilled.
Blades, tines and shears,
honored with their welded wounds,
once shiny by their labor,
turn to rust;
succumb to the elements of their god.