Found the Gold Painted Yoke

[nibbed]

Found the Gold Painted Yoke


Heavy
and crackled,

three long
giant headed
nails

held it safely
in oak rafters
for more than 70 years:

Great-grandfather
bravely drudge-plowed
that we might one day live.

They say
he once drank
from a pottery jug,

later fiddled stories
about salvation
as his great wife
swept dirt floors.

East St. Louis
was the Big Town

its long trip
might have been
worth finding
a can of paint
abandoned in a heap:

to perk them both,
He brushed smooth colour
on the wood of his worn,
rust kissed yoke,

soon finding itself
serving as both ornament
and liveliest jig,

even the old mare
could hear
just how special she was
through his precious reel.

[dukealien]

This is wonderful - sets the scene and tone, makes the reader think just enough to be satisfying.

Being a city kid, my first image was an ox yoke, but a horse yoke (on miniimal research) is a sort of spar rather than the big, heay ox-borne thing.  Doesn't really matter:  the gold-painted yoke for going into town to the sound of the fiddle is magic.

His yoke was golden
and his fiddle was light.

[just mercedes]

Yes, I like too! Especially fiddling while the floors were swept.

[nibbed]

Hi Dukealien. I like your interpretation, too.
Thank you so much for replying to my poem.

Hi just mercedes. Thank you so much for
your kind remarks.

I hope you both have a wonderful day
filled with joy, warmth, and blessings.