There’s this old windmill I pass every day on County Road 8. <br />Its blades are all bent and rusted in place. <br />Yet it seems so majestic with its overcoat of vines. <br />I’m sure if it could talk, it would talk of simpler times. <br /> <br />Fairly close to my observation but somewhat hidden <br /> in the weeds, sits an old forgotten John Deere tractor <br /> with no rubber on its feet. Its bones still strong and holding <br />firm to the plow that drew the lines. I’m sure if it could talk, <br />it would talk of simpler times. <br /> <br />I pass this way most every day and never give <br />it any thought. But lately I’ve been prone to <br />wonder, who drove that tractor, who sewed the crops? <br />I envy such a life where the world moved at a slower <br /> pace, and people sat on front porch swings not <br /> concerned about the race. <br /> <br />Running north to south as far as I can see, <br />stands a row of cedar fence posts, some hell <br />bent on pointing east. No common thread connects <br /> them as it did in years gone by. I’m sure if they could <br /> talk, they would talk of simpler times. <br /> <br />Just like a piece of art that takes time to understand, <br />I’ve grown to love that viney windmill, and shoeless tractor <br /> on fenceless land. And even though my friends can’t <br />talk they speak to me each day and take me back <br />to simpler times as I hurry on my way.<br /><br />Alexander Beebe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/simpler-times-5/
