Vibrant Village ™

Granddad was eighty-six
when my father told him
he could not drive his
rusty tractor
down the narrow highway
lined with Queen Anne’s lace
dancing as wide wheels
sashayed between the edge
of broken asphalt and the ditch.

On cool spring mornings
he drove that stretch
to reach fields
separated from pastures
by a deep creek,
pulling the plow
with bouncing and clanking
metal disks announcing
hay planting time.

On July mornings
that simmered before noon
he hitched on
the dented hay baler
and pulled it,
leaking oil that drizzled
across the yellow line,
slowly down
the cracked pavement.

One evening my father’s eyes
strayed down
that yellow line
almost invisible at dusk.
He didn’t look up
at his father when he said,

Your eyes are quitting on you
and your knees, too,
so you don’t brake in time.
I got to think about the guy
on the road coming toward you.
He might be one of the Taylor kids
driving home from school.

Granddad pulled his worn,
blue handkerchief out of his overalls
took off his wire rim glasses
wiped them clean
put his creased, crooked hand
on my father’s shoulder saying,

Well, she’s done then, son.