a first on the farm
was the income producer the proud new barn
Rising stick by stick
skilled hands hewed, pegged
put together the skeleton
then roof and siding and more
a little room for tack
a little room for special feed
a little room for tools and a vice
stanchions for the cows
who would stand and munch while we milked
and a giant space for hay
Oh the memories piling with the hay!
Playing in the mountain
with grandpa far below
a fell into a cavity
I could see the top way up
and yelled for grandpa
He heard me and came quickly
dropping a rope down to me
pulling me up and out
(I still get claustrophobic!)
Another time I climbed the ladder
to throw down hay for the cows
just about dark, it was
As I reached the upper floor
two red beady eyes,
and a big mouth of sharp teeth greeted me
I yelled and raced down and out
to grandpa’s laughter
A possum had run me off!
Another time I tried to help
Grandpa had a brand new pitchfork
he only had half broken tools
I was working with the hay
most awkwardly
the handle being for a grown man
and me but a small boy
So I used my brain and thought
“Saw in the tool room, vice to hold the handle”
and I cut the handle to my size.
but never said a word
’cause my motive was pure-
it was for WORK
a religion of sorts.
The stories are many
I sure could go on
about life in the barn
I need to write that
for the grandchildren?
A hundred ten years have passed
since great grandpa worked there
and now, now,
the barn can’t be used
doesn’t fit what we do
and is gonna come down
A giant machine will come
and with a great iron hand
swing and bang and bring it down
to a sad, sad pile of sticks
Yes, we’ll recycle, as much as we can
Soon it will be
like a spent party balloon
laying, waiting
to be sorted out and gone
The party is over
but the party goes on
just in another way
Good bye, old friend
you served ever so well
but you, too, must return
to the soil from which you came.
Lin 11/2011