A thousand winds could not topple this old man.
The keeper of Hay, and apples, vinyard concorde,

Purple.

Sweet days of buzzing things,
The pungeant aroma of grain freshly threshed.
The scythe is rusted and tired now.

Percheron brethern,
buried and memorialized just behind him.

Leather tack, hung for the last time,
no one remembers when

--William Burkholder

Dayville, Oregon

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