Old Barn

Dear old barn,
still standing there
no longer
straight and tall,
I can see remains of
paint, bright red
when I was small.
The hay mow
that we played in
is empty now
and cold,
the pigeons still
are nesting there
as in the days of old.
The hay slings
I would swing from
as I jumped
into the hay
have disappeared
completely
somewhere along the way.
The mangers and
the stanchions
seem lonely all alone,
there’s not a sign of cattle;
I hear the
north wind moan.
I pull my sweater closer
and walk back to my car
and wipe away
a silent tear
for the way
things were and are.

~ written by Lucille Falk Miller,(c)1985