Grandpa’s tractor, rusted and old, A relic from a time untold, Sitting in the field, a story to be told, Of days gone by, and memories to hold.
With its chipped paint and weathered seat, It’s a symbol of a life complete, A life of hard work, from sun to sleet, Of planting, harvesting, and bittersweet.
I remember sitting on Grandpa’s lap, As we rumbled across the field, the tractor’s clap, I felt safe, like nothing could happen to us, And the world seemed small, without much fuss.
Grandpa would tell me stories of his youth, Of farming days and working to the truth, And as we plowed the field, I felt uncouth, To learn so much from someone so aloof.
But time has passed, and Grandpa’s gone, The tractor stands, a monument to dawn, And though it’s rusted, and worn, It still reminds me of days reborn.
The memories of those simpler days, Still linger on, in so many ways, And though the tractor sits alone and sways, Grandpa’s love will always stay.