The Red Wheelbarrow
Beside the barn, the wheelbarrow waits, Its red body resting, as time hesitates. The morning fog clings to the air, And in the stillness, there's a story there. The grass is wet with dew, so fine, Each blade a whisper, a silent line. The wheelbarrow, worn and cracked, A humble vessel, quietly intact. Its handle smooth from years of toil, Its wooden frame, weathered by soil. Yet in its stillness, there’s a grace, A peaceful place in time and space. The rooster crows, the dawn breaks through, The world awakens with a hue. Yet here it sits, the wheelbarrow red, While life spins on, the sun ahead. It holds no grandeur, no lofty claim, Yet there’s a beauty in its name. For in its stillness, we can see The simple truth of what must be. The farmer’s hands, rough and worn, Gently place the seeds they’ve borne. Each seed, a promise, small and bright, Planted deep in the morning light. The wheelbarrow waits, a silent friend, Its journey bound with earth to lend. I...