The Old Barn

The old barn nearly bare of the bright red paint

That once declared it fit for service

Now stands as a monument of a different time

When, in fact, it was full of cattle

And the loft held loose hay cut days before

So that those who tended the stock

Need only open the chutes and fork

The sweet smelling, brittle stalks down

To the animals below as they bumped

Into each other trying to find a spot

To call their own to eat

And someone was charged with carrying water

In wooden buckets from the old well

Which was nothing more than a spring head

Gurgling out of the ground with the freshest water

A veritable hive of activity morning and night

But that scene is gone, and there is only

The ramshackle skeleton of sturdy beams

The roof faded that once proudly declared, “VANS,”

And a field of sumac surrounding it

Like a rosy red wreath laid at a grave.