Longingly I look at the old tractor. I listen to the rattled chug of the engine as it spits and gasps for life.
Longingly I smell the dewy grass on a clear spring morning and at the mere thought of it, imaginary mist tingling my nose. Longingly I savor the sour bit of dirt and sweat the collect around my kerchief planting the rows. Longingly I touch the raw cattle hide saddle hung loosely around the barn door—abandoned as if it has no owner. Longingly I live for those days growing up on the farm when life was much simpler.
Longingly I smell the dewy grass on a clear spring morning and at the mere thought of it, imaginary mist tingling my nose. Longingly I savor the sour bit of dirt and sweat the collect around my kerchief planting the rows. Longingly I touch the raw cattle hide saddle hung loosely around the barn door—abandoned as if it has no owner. Longingly I live for those days growing up on the farm when life was much simpler.
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