In a past life, that derelict lump of metal was a tractor.
The farmer used it to tend the cattle ghosting his field.
The wife made dinner for the family in that farmhouse.
The farmer and his wife made sure to let their children dream.
The farmer and his wife lived by the wisdom in the almanac.
Now the last of their children left, her mother wipes her tears.
She cried for the loss of her children, her tears
cultivating paths like the furrows made by tractor.
“Winter temperatures below normal and snowfall will be above
normal” says the almanac.
While plowing away the evidence of past life in the field
the farmer welcomes the past back in his dreams
of the once quiet, then suddenly full, now empty farmhouse.
The family that once filled his farmhouse.
The farmer starts, it’s not rain, but his own tears,
The farmer hid from his wife when his dream
was plowed under by the tractor
in the field of yesterday’s dreams, the field
covered with the snow predicted by the almanac.
The family lived and died by that almanac.
They lived, laughed, and loved in the farmhouse.
They worked the land and sewed their field.
They cried for their losses and shed many tears.
The work done with a tractor
naught much now but a lonely dream.
Their children used to dream
about life and the world outside the sphere of the almanac
Worked the fields in the father’s tractor,
cooked meals in the family’s farmhouse,
wept their sorrows for their losses, tears
running in furrows down their faces to the field.
In the lonely, empty, field
where my mother used to dream,
my fears and tears
soak the pages of the almanac
as they sell the farmhouse
and abandon the tractor.
The tractor is now abandoned in the field.
My grandparent’s farmhouse left empty to dream
of the wisdom in the almanac and weep empty tears.