The Barn
I don’t know if that old barn is still standing
With its gambrel roof intact,
But I can imagine its hayloft stacked high,
And its hand-hewn beams, weathered and cracked.
Inside that aged, worn-out structure
Was my favorite place to be,
Sitting on an upturned bucket next to grandpa,
Or better yet, upon his knee.
Battered doors sagged heavy on rusty hardware,
Thru the splintered planks, sun rays peeked.
Chaff and grain hung on the air,
And the heart-pine floorboards readily creaked.
On a stick horse made of hickory,
With frayed bailing twine for a mane,
I galloped up and down the breezeway,
Dodging rough-cut posts and frame.
I sat for hours rapt atop the hay feeder
While Grandpa milked and told tall tales.
As the cobwebs danced and the shadows lengthened,
He never slowed his pace nor tipped the pail.
Many a life lesson I learned beneath those timbers,
Values unbending as the rafters of that old barn.
Life was real and good and natural
Where pitchforks and pigeon feathers held their own distinctive charm!
* de - february 2009
