by Jonathan Vold

Saturday, November 19

Brooding Barn

The brooding barn was an old hen perched
On a tilting nest at a hillside farm.
Her eggs were lifelong memories,
To the very end kept safe and warm,

And now that she’s gone, the eggs are hatching,
Generating chicks dispatching
Hungry peeps with a sweet refrain:
The barn’s expired, but we remain.

So, trouble not at the season’s end
That the hen is dead.  Remember how
She was a shelter from the rain,
She was a friend to horse and cow,

And when they left, the children found her,
Rebuilt her nest and ran around her
With energy that’s still sustained.
The barn has fallen, but we remain

To never forget how that barn stood tall
And caught the sunrise on the hill
And defined the farm.  Or so it seemed:
There is a windmill creaking still,

Just one mile north of Yankee Hollow,
And still an easy pace to follow
On Sawmill Creek at Loyalty Lane.
The barn is gone, but there remains

The Andrew Path, the winding trails
The planted pines, the budding oaks,
The setting sun, a billion stars,
And time to visit with the folks,

And the lasting word from Dick O’Brien
Who has no time for country cryin’:
Enjoy! Sit back! Don’t give a darn!
The barn is dead?  Long live the barn!

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