An old red barn stands undefeated,
aged by the decades of service,
faded, the colour draining from its face,
corrugated roof as white as my hair,
but the whole still standing, proud
of Old Glory emblazoned below the eaves.
Bleached by the sun the flag still flies,
a symbol of the Land of the Free, and yet
the barn itself speaks even more
of the States and the Union in these times.
Weather beaten, paint peeling, subject
to storms, pressed this way and that,
a nation beset in its maturity,
we look to the future with trembling,
the For Sale sign pointing the way
to the barn’s sad denouement.
Hope remains that any new owners
might save and restore aging timbers,
just as new generations prepare
to shoulder a sacred trust.