The farmman carries a shovel
his eyes are sunken
he walks with a limp
yet his mind is clear as day.
just as in the old days
the crows came to gawk
at a scarecrow
in the middle of the land,
a sentinel
that protected
his childhood farm.
it revels up a sense of
reminiscence
a force a thousand times more
powerful than Gravity
pulling on the tides,
drawing him
in..
in..
and in...
into the past
a time more precious
than orbs of gold
when times were much simpler.
his mind becomes black and white.
crispy hay crunched and rattled
as dirty children in overalls
muddy boots and cowboy hats
laughed and screamed and shouted
emitting blithe sounds
the wind couriered on
and resonated acres on acres beyond.
the corn maze was the Red Sea
bright green, lively stalks
danced with the breeze,
swaying
like a tranquil anchor by the shore.
the farm boys were Moses's incarnations
as they ran in and out
up and around the maze
ants in a labyrinth
under a water-blue sky
that irrigated all thirsts for adventure.
onto a scavenger hunt
they embarked.
One. check.
Two. check.
...
Nineteen. Check.
...
soon two silos
glowed under the moonlight
darkness exhaled silence
and took His matches to fireplaces.
the last task on the hunt
had eluded to be crossed.
He remembers of
swearing to finish the twentieth:
to find a famous book buried
under the dirt near the corn maze
so Time maneuvers him
Seventy years on
and the task still awaits him
Today.
The man promised
coming back
and back he has come.
Indeed.
Today the crunchy hay is
but damp dirt
the corn mazes have converged
and withered
the sea above is a mirkless gray
and laughter is omitted by
a calm, poignant silence.
Today
there are no children to greet him
no trucks to dodge from
and no horses to ride.
he is a farmman
no longer a farmboy.
he starts peeling at
Earth’s skin with his shovel.
a deep sense of longing
overwhelms him
and once again he feels
the spark, the acuity
of former times.
for just a split second
he was the common, innocent
Farmboy of the past.
but boys will not forever be boys.
the ground reveals the mystery:
a book torn, old and worn
a portal to the past
a childhood classic
A Wrinkle in Time.
tears well up but
a smile emerges on his face.
Seventy years is a long time.
Twenty. Check.
he looks on to the only
surviving structure
of his old home.
Time flies
like that old mill
that just doesn’t
stop spinnin'.
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