Poetry

A faint outline appeared in the early morn
a full moon still shed its light,
dark shadows
spread across the land casting an eerie
shadow over the far
distant hills.
An old buckboard clattered along a dusty
road bumping
roughly over pot holes
washed out by an early winter rain.

The old
mule plodded along - ribs
showing from a life of hard work prolonged,
a
rather tired animal trudging slowly along
tugging at its heavy load.


The old man sat humped over on the seat,
nodding as though he was
asleep.
A low hanging branch served to awaken him as
it slapped sharply
against the side of his head
causing him to sit up straight, grabbing his
hat
that was about to be shed.

A road traveled more than once,

from the old farm down to the general store,
bumping along on rutted
roads, filled with
holes, not a friendly ride it was, but
one that both
the rider and mule
had made many times.

On either side of the road
rows of tall trees standing straight
with leaves long since gone, the trunks

appearing as gaunt ribs rising up from the ground
much as the old mule
appeared,
as it pulled its heavy load quietly by.

The day was cold,
a north wind blew, chilling
both with icy fingers that cut to the bone;

but the old man and the mule just plodded along,
going silently down
that dusty road bumping
over the ruts and pot holes worn by time and use
itself;
two old friends working and waiting, serving out time
as they
repeated their daily chores.

Time and work takes its toll,
as man
and beast move along
worn and traveled roads
doing never ending chores
of old
until the end of a road is finally reached.