The Old Barn Door
Silence reigns in silvered wood beams.
A speckled pigeon wings out between rotted planks.
Dust motes rise through shafts of sun.
Where are you? Where did you go?
Tools lie unused, rusting on plank floors.
Leather harnesses with leads crack and fall.
Rats rustle in the musty hay loft,
Remnants of a summer long past.
Come back! Come back to me!
I long to hear the cows’ lowing and the sound
Of fresh milk hitting the bucket!
The smell of fresh mowed clover stacked
For winter!
Where are the children who climbed to my rafters--
Leaping into the air with only a rope
Between the loft and the floor?
Silence rings as surely as a gong.
The old barn door stays closed,
Guarded by weeds and rusted hinges.
Time and the timeless
Together.
Our old barn was built with solid oak timber beams and wooden pegs. Built in the 1860s, it lasted 120 years. We kids spent hours climbing and exploring the barn, knew every stair, trestle, trap-doors, stalls, hayloft—I can feel it now.
