The weathered barn -
once wore new
coats of old red...
An idea as sensible
as it was a principle
of long practical standing
Built with hard timbers
hewn by even heavier traditions
and sealed
with life’s viscid contradictions.
A rural edifice...
an icon to benevolence
filled from fields of green;
Gilded with fierce independence
and scarred by time’s isolation
As counted by the trans lines
of old technology strung out
along the diserted dirt route
Far from connection
With romantic scenes of time.
The splintered doors hang loosely
Upon hinges compromised by rust
and the bare hay bins are choked in dust.
The house is empty; the horse is dead
and the old barn has lost its red.
A lost memory hints in a glint ahead.
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