TRACTOR TIRES
James M. Truxell
June, 1998
Sometimes we send our griefs down deep
Like the farmer burying the used up
Tires from too many seasons of
Tractors endlessly going back and forth,
Tilling the soil.
One by one,
They work their way
Up.
So that in the middle of a July 4 picnic -
Out past the cornfield
Near that full-green willow which
Dances to the song of the
Lazy creek beneath it,
The one the cows gather in to chase the
Summer heat away -
Out there
We trip on them.
Party crashers,
Uninvited and
In the Way,
They toss us on our asses,
If we're lucky;
And remind us of all those hopes
We've taken to the compost pile
Where they lie
Forgotten,
Changing into
What?
God knows.
If burying them trips us up,
What then?
Piled up in a fence corner,
The honeysuckle hides them
Only partly.
An eyesore they remain,
An embarrassment even to the crows,
And a hiding place for vipers.
Burning them is out of the question.
The fire smolders forever
Driving even the best of friends
Away.
There ought to be a law against it . . .
And probably there is.
So perhaps we'll do what our
Neighbors across these hills and valleys
Have forever done.
This common union of saints,
Wise in their simplicity,
Find the white
Wash
From last year's renovation of the
Spring house.
It looks fine on those worn-out
Treads.
Where axles used to turn them
Petunias, pansies, thyme, and daisies -
Maybe even lilies from down by the
Railroad tracks -
Are urged to bloom . . .
In the middle . . .
In the yard . . .
Out front.
When the sun wakes, and the weather allows,
They sit on the porch looking at that
New life blooming in the alabaster ring
And they search out memory's store:
"She had so much courage."
"She found a way to love herself and us
Better and better."
"She was on her way home."
"Look! Here's the picture I remember her by."
In time, after all those questions which have
No answers
Have not been answered once again,
A door is opened by its keeper:
Common, holy grief . . . and Love
Walks in.
Then, through smiles not bravely forced but
Born of grace and recognition,
They pass the plate of crullers.
Dipping them in the reassuring coffee,
They chase away the mourning chill,
Rescuing hope.
God knows.
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