Today, in that old junk-pile down the hill, One of the farm's peculiar treasuries -- We found a rusted stay, a splintered thill, A knee of oak, and surge of memories... Robbed of their gloss by wash of wind and sun -- No hint of cushioned comfort, scroll display -- But sound as when their runnered flight was done Decades ago... or was it yesterday? I see spent mustangs -- weary miles to go -- The heads up-flung in sudden, age-old fright, As a wild chorus shrills across the snow -- A soothing word, and onward through the night. Fur-coated form -- a cabin door flung wide -- A shape that leers across the ragged spread -- Two kind, cruel hands, and One to watch beside -- Two lives his offering, when dawn burns red! "Daddy, what is this thing beat like a bow?" "Just an old piece of Grandpa's cutter, son -- He used to drive one 'round here, long ago -- How could you guess -- you never rode in one!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: DAVIS MATLOCK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PARAGRAPHS: 16 by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE INCORRIGIBLE DIRIGIBLE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE WOMEN WITH FABLED HAIR by MADELINE DEFREES PURSUIT OF THE WORD by ROBERT FROST ODE TO THE BROWN PAPER BAG by JAMES GALVIN |