The Tiller Beneath the Lilacs

Shorts

A History in Verse 

Thought we'd do something a little different this time...a poetic post.  I've only recently begun to include some of my poetry here, but I thought, Hey... Why not? 

The Tiller Beneath the Lilacs

Beside the fence

where lilacs lean and breathe each spring,

their sweet scent drifting soft and slow,

like whispered stories caught in the breeze,

and the house rests on the corner

where the boulevard curves

to meet the street,

I found the old tiller—

or maybe it found me again.

It waits in the grass,

half-swallowed by vines—

its frame low and quiet,

the hitch rusted to stillness,

as if the earth itself has pulled it in

and tucked it gently under.

Larry came through the side gate one afternoon,

dragging it slow from the yard behind ours—

where arbor vitae crowd the fence line,

and quiet footsteps fall soft on worn earth,

the dry scent of soil rising in the warm air.

He said it was bound for the scrap pile,

but some things carry more than weight—

memory, patience, the slow passing of time—

too much to simply be thrown away.

I used to think

it should be fixed,

or moved somewhere else.

Now I think

it came here to rest.

Its body is heavy,

its tines dulled and dusted with rust,

and the paint,

once bright red,

has faded and softened into memory—

a blush of summer gone.

Still, the lilacs bloom above it—

letting their pale light

drift down like petals in the breeze,

and the hum of bees

circles through the air—

a steady, patient rhythm

woven into the quiet afternoon.

They don’t mind the company.

Winter comes with its hush—

frost etching delicate lace

on tired metal and sleeping vines,

while snow piles soft around the roots,

and silence gathers deep beneath bare branches.

Spring wakes the earth again,

bringing soft green fingers

to twist through the rust,

and lilac blooms return—

fresh light spilling through the old leaves.

Summer stretches long and warm,

the air thick with honeyed scent,

while cicadas sing

and shadows shift lazily

across the tiller’s weathered frame.

Fall drapes the world in gold and rust,

leaves drifting down like whispered goodbyes,

and the tiller waits—

steady as ever—

anchored in this quiet turning.

This old house,

nestled at the meeting of two streets,

has watched the years pass—

listened to rain on the roof,

felt sun warm the porch steps,

and learned, slowly, to let things be.

I stopped here this morning,

without quite meaning to—

as if stillness had hands

and gently held me,

the cool spring air

a soft balm against my skin,

the faint rustle of leaves

and distant birdsong

folded into the quiet.

The tiller said nothing.

It didn’t need to.

It had done its work,

lived its time,

and come to rest—

quiet, among roots and petals,

where no one asks

for anything more.

So I stood watching light sift through lilac branches—

and thought,

Not everything lost

needs finding.

Some things are meant

to stay just where they are—

gently turning

back into the world.

GB Shaw Jr.

2015

Afterward 

And there you have it, the story of the tiller here at 173 - in verse!  I do hope you enjoyed it...thanks for stopping by - see ya' next time!