The Old Farm

Off Highway 113, Northern Minnesota, 1985

There were still a few abandoned farms around here then.
Most have returned to earth by now:

Once vibrant fields now overgrown with weeds,
Whispering of agricultural deeds.
The barn poses in a shabby dress,
Its laboring over, it takes a rest.

Rusty plowshares rest in the field,
No longer guided by hands that wield.
The windmill creaks in the restless air,
A sentinel of the past singing there.

A humble farmhouse, abandoned
Standing in silence, unmanned.
The stone foundation is cool to the touch,
Reminds us of seasons past and such.

A victim of time's embrace,
A portrait of a once-loved place.
What once was real now it seems,
Is now a painting of broken dreams.