by Michael Plante

The old red tractor sits in an open field
golden wheat sways from a warm breeze
better days have passed the tractor by
nothing now but wind and dirt.

discarded by time
the old tractor still plays a part
a symbolic jester to history’s ledger
what was due, and what was paid.

twilight’s eye captures the tractor
pays homage every night;
only when rust has claimed the final payment
will twilight’s memory fade to black.