The Forrest and the Moon

from by Charles Bordeaux

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The Farmer lays in bed,
Quietly beside his wife.
Dreams dance in her head,
The Farmer's mind races with thoughts.

The kids, the love, the grange.
Grown, aged, and gone.
A head now full of grey,
once was thick and rich, the color bronze.
He sees the moon is full,
He rises out of bed.
He hops on, his 59' Bonneville,
Away away he sped.

He rides, he rides, he rides.
He rides into the night.
Like a north start,
or a compass,
He follows the moonlight.
With Crossroads ahead,
The forest to the north,
He parks along the gravel road,
And takes neither fork.

He's drawn to the woods,
With the moon as his guide.
He stops dead in his tracks,
He can't believe his eyes.
There stood time,
With all his sand.
The farmer smiled,
looking at his hand.

Time nods.
The Farmer understands.
In his hand,
Is the final grain of sand.


from Fables, released December 16, 2012




Charles Bordeaux Buffalo, New York

Charles Bordeaux, n.

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