The Old Barn


The old barn sighs as he remembers the voices,
Voices of people who built him.
Voices of people who trod over his boards,
Voices of people who cared for him.

The voices, long since gone,
but he remembers.

He waits for new, cheeful voices and knows
none will ever come.
To them he is dead.
A memr'y of years past.

Old and forgotten.
Left to house mice and birds.
Left to rot and fall away.
Un-painted and uncared for.

The old barn sighs again
and settles down for a long wait.

Suzanne Wilson Ruckman, age 14
1979