There’s this old windmill I pass every day on County Road 8.
Its blades are all bent and rusted in place.
Yet it seems so majestic with its overcoat of vines.
I’m sure if it could talk, it would talk of simpler times.
Fairly close to my observation but somewhat hidden
in the weeds, sits an old forgotten John Deere tractor
with no rubber on its feet. Its bones still strong and holding
firm to the plow that drew the lines. I’m sure if it could talk,
it would talk of simpler times.
I pass this way most every day and never give
it any thought. But lately I’ve been prone to
wonder, who drove that tractor, who sewed the crops?
I envy such a life where the world moved at a slower
pace, and people sat on front porch swings not
concerned about the race.
Running north to south as far as I can see,
stands a row of cedar fence posts, some hell
bent on pointing east. No common thread connects
them as it did in years gone by. I’m sure if they could
talk, they would talk of simpler times.
Just like a piece of art that takes time to understand,
I’ve grown to love that viney windmill, and shoeless tractor
on fenceless land. And even though my friends can’t
talk they speak to me each day and take me back
to simpler times as I hurry on my way.
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Comments about this poem (Simpler Times by Alexander Beebe )
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