Seeking

I walk along...and watch,
With the water full of ease.
My feet tread lightly,
My hair moves in the breeze.

I smell the rising perfume,
Musty...of the Tanza weed.
And in that moments seance,
Comes a long forgotten need.

I see the brown of rust,
On wheels...now heaped in junk.
The twisted boards of a wagon-bed,
The clasped-hinge of a trunk.

Crude machines...all of these,
For the work...in hauling hay.
I stoop to touch the lever,
Of a tool of yesterday.

The disk....the plow...the axel-wood,
Seemed like...old-folks standing round.
They watch in muted silence,
From a moss-infested ground.

Time and years had welded,
To seal this long ago age.
Like a host of ghostly figures,
They were made to match the sage.

E.P. 1908 - 1989