His small feet found the grooves

In the cogs

Of the dilapidated wheels

He used to walk,

As a child,

With his mother

Down the sunny lane.

Together they would walk

Together, on their afternoon expeditions

To the wonderfully radiant field.

And there, in the middle,

The tractor.

He had never seen it run.

In fact, its huge iron wheels

Swore their testimony of rust—

It had not run

Since before his mother was a girl

Herself,

When it

Winnowed the bright grain of the lonely field

In the heavy summer sun.

He had never seen it run.

It stood like a friendless lion,

Alone,

Growing darker and weaker with age.

       His small feet found the grooves

In the cogs

Of the dilapidated wheels

And he hoisted

Himself

Into the driver’s seat

And brought the old beast

Back to life

To the tune of his boyish mind

And the rumblings of his happy little mouth.

He used to walk,

As a child,

With his mother

Down the sunny lane.

Now,

The furious cars fly past,

Slapping the air in their whizzing way,

Eating the golden field

One forlorn lane at a time.

"Hazelwood" by Adam Palumbo.