An Old Rusty Windmill Marks the Days
There’s a rusty windmill
cranking and creaking
to every tired exhale
of a cool early June day
The old farm is a memory
worn out weathered wood
the haunted shade of yesterday
hangs like a wet blanket
from a clothesline
Rustic and riddled with splinters
the whole place is peeling like paint
worn out at the edge of town
barbed wire fence ready to kiss flesh
rosy red with rust
All the tired memories hang on loosely
as the wind whispers its fields
barbed wire fence waits on tender flesh
and an old rusty windmill marks the days
2 thoughts on "An Old Rusty Windmill Marks the Days"
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Especially love the imagery in “barbed wire fence ready to kiss flesh” and “tired memories hang on loosely.”
Thank you! Happy you enjoyed this. I was sitting on the front porch, in the porch swing (as I usually am when a line or two of poetry first shows up) when all these images of a tired old farm came together. Poems really are found things more often than not.