The Old Ford Tractor

~ ~ ~

how complicit are we

in the seasonal change

in the drumbeat of war

in the mistaken identity

of the power we were

told to relinquish

as frightened

children

how far

away is the

release of the

springtime thunder

the catastrophic floods

drowning all of our dreams

only to give way to a fire season

full of disaster that beckons

our consummate

demise

how can

we ever get

past this point

of fragile stasis

like a thawed out

motor, needing lubricants

needing a spark to start us

lacking the fuel to begin the

seasonal planting ahead

what will happen

                                  next

in this overgrown

field, full of winter’s

dead victims,

                           needing

                           rebirth

needing the

work done

to stop

all of

           this turning

                                  toward

an unsalvageable

future

             that we cannot

see

        for the dead weeds

that

have surrounded us

for an entire winter