Chaff to food, as we are to gods. Who shall we call to this task? The loss of something is the gain of something else.

She was the new hero 160 years ago driven by the flywheel, the blades cut to length chaff as feed. An attachment for the farm in the days when life was still mechanical.

Under the serene sun’s gaze and muscular cumulus, she is now retired.

Angels unseen in bare trees, bear testament to her wasting.

She ages with the trees, the ancient walls of stone and the forest beyond.

Marching home to the husk of faded love. Like rust on New Hero No. 14, a crust that flakes off into an entropy from motion to least motion. When a farm becomes a museum, the farmers shuttled off to the abattoir.

I feel the sadness of new hero’s solitude. When urges, like songs of tears flowing from eyes, become soils of senescence and then renewal. As loves petals fall from ruined seasons, the plateau is there and freedom from the fascism of self inflicted thoughts. I love you No. 14. Where is your family now dearest?