The rusted plow

The plow sat rusting in the yard that day, A weathered sentinel against the gray. I saw it then, beneath the willow's sway, A relic of a life now passed away. It stood forlorn, amidst the tangled weeds, A silent witness to forgotten dreams. And I, the keeper of its aging deeds, Reflected on its furrows and its gleams. It never knew the purpose of my hand, The turning earth, the bounty of the land. Perhaps it dreamed of fields it used to stand, A gentle guidance, at my command. I touched it then, a reverence born of years, A loyal servant resting in the sun. And felt the weight of laughter and of tears, The cycle of the seasons, come and done. Now in the silence, I can only see, The ghosts of harvests waving in the breeze. Did purpose linger in its rusted teeth? Or did it dream of earth beneath the trees?