We cousins would climb onto a copious seat
worn slick by rain and sun,
the trousers of men both thick and spare.
We made a kind of game: Each setting of the giant tines
could chart your life. High for smooth,
hardship low, and tragic on the ground.
An overbuilt machine, no amount of hay
could need that bulk. The elms
would whisper secrets in the yard.
Lilacs by the road pushed against the drive
and hid approaching cars from view.
The tires hissed on tar as they sped by.
Only three or four, I knew enough to open wide the door
before ascending to the beds above
to let the breezy nighttime secrets through.
In the side lot under moon and stars
the rake would arc the metal tines like years
and shape the wind in rows.
Jeff Boyer (collector)
Thanks Jeff for sharing your poem with us!