We walk hand-in-hand
down to Grandpa's farm.
Walk down the rows of
endless tractors.
The musty barn smell
and the perfect, sweet
smell of gasoline
engulfs us.
And we finally reach the end
of the labyrinth of machines.
We stop in front of the old
John Deere D.
My father's favorite.
I run my fingers
over the rusty grill,
cracked tires,
smooth fenders,
chipped, yellow spokes.
Dad steps forward
and turns the flywheel
with all his might,
And the large, green contraption
hisses and roars to life.
Dad explains
over the whir of the engine
why this John Deere is special,
as I climb up
onto the large fender.
A mechanical language
that only puzzles me.
But I vow to remember
exactly what he said
to impress him with my knowledge
next time,
when we walk through
the sacred labyrinth.