The barns on the farms of my grandfather and his sons
were places of daily work,
but out back by the corn crib,
or at the foot of an ancient oak,
or set on a window sill
would lie a tool,
an ax or shovel with a broken handle,
a saw with bent teeth,
a rim or hub of a wagon wheel,
a tool whose days of work
had come to an end, likely abruptly.
The day before it had been essencial,
chopping or cutting wood,
or separating earth,
hauling or pulling or moving a crop
from the field to the barn.
Then an act by man or god
moved the tool from usefullness to uselessness,
and it was set aside
with every intention of being repaired
and returned to the farmer’s hands.
But as each day passed,
its absence was noticed less and less
and rust embraced it with promises to return it to
the earth and
to a new life
in a new form
on a new day.