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