great uncle vic

The barn stands in the distance
once proud and mighty
a tall figure sillhouetted on the horizon
now heartbroken and torn
hanging onto a thread of existence
it's major blow the tornado of 1990.

The small acreage also houses a two-room
shed that has been abandoned for next to
twenty years. Crossing the threshold
reveals treasures of a time now forgotten:
the anvil on the cracked, weathered stump
rusty saw blades lying exposed in the rafters
chains and cobwebs blended together
one discarded thigh-high rubber boot
wrenches that fit long dead tractors
vices of all sizes with empty mouths.

The old farmer looks out on his life
rubbing the burn the sun delivered to his scalp
mumbling about the weather and lack of rain
the complaints about soft oak trees that provide wind barriers
the wish for stronger trees like elm or pine
as the fifteen remaining cows stare from a huddle
waiting for lunch from a bucket carried by
hands that know the blessing and curse that is the earth.