Still standing,
weathered and kanted.

A thousand winds could not topple this old man.
The keeper of Hay, and apples, vinyard concorde,

Sweet days of buzzing things,
The pungeant aroma of grain freshly threshed.
The scythe is rusted and tired now.

Percheron brethern,
buried and memorialized just behind him.

Leather tack, hung for the last time,
no one remembers when,

Like a bald man searching,
This building, bent and gazing,
at slate tiles slipped from head.

Pale shadows of red make up peeking,
Just as the old Mail Pouch add.

This old man has seen his day,
Has contributed countless harvest to market.01-22-09-extra

He is tired now, and justly so…

Leave him to rest in peace,
with the empty lofts,

The dead horses,
and Rusted plow.

Old man calling,
A simple request,
to just remember and revere.


by William Burkholder

Note:  I had to look up a word.  In case it’s new to you too, I’m sharing it to save you from Googling it…

Percheron:                                                                                                                                                                                                                Breed of draft horse, originally bred in the Normandy region of France, but popular throughout the world.