Barn

The old trail is tossed by the roots of its guardians,
and slabs of stone raised askew by the hands of time.

It is hard to imagine what the old farm looked like,
the fields now thick with softwood, choked with underbrush,
where a hundred years past lay prime pasture land.

The old stone wall marks the boundary between fields,
a rusted plow blade wedged between the dry set field stone
alludes to the planting of crops within this section
while others penned sheep or cattle to the land.

The path leads to the old barn, clinging to existence.
Her clapboards soft and spongy beneath the heavy moss
and climbing vines that lay claim to her timber frame.

I push gently on the old door, and after some hesitation
the large panel slides grudgingly along the track,
as the casters are reminded of their forgotten function,
only to yield just enough space to let me crawl through.

Old stalls lay silent under fallen planks and aged debris,
as ferns emerge from the rough cut timbers beneath my feet,
shallow roots taking hold in the chaff and dander of old pine.

Musty smell of remaining hay permeates the air
as owls, mice and fox strive to make her lofts their own.
Fertile soil brings nature forward in abundant shows
of crops and flowers mother nature now has sown.

I squeeze back out, and walk around her girth,
and appraise the land she served as well she could.
Then squat beside her before I go, reflect upon her worth.

She is from an age when things were built to last forever.
and her frame shall remain long beyond my days.