The Quiet Rust

An abandoned tractor sinks into the field, Orange iron returning to the earth, Its engine choked with green briars, While the wind whistles through empty wheel wells.

The barn leans against the graying sky, A hollow shell of sun-bleached wood, Where swallows dart through broken windows, And dust motes dance in slivers of cold light.

Generations of sweat vanish in the soil, Leaving only twisted wire and silent stones, As the slow, relentless tide of seasons Washes away the heavy imprint of our hands.