The Barn Remembers

I am the bones of shelter past, stone-stacked and weathered, built to last.
My frameless window, once a watchful eye, now frames the hills where echoes lie.

I held the heat of cattle breath, the stomp of life, the scent of death. Children laughed within my frame, and whispered every creature’s name. Their voices warmed my wooden beams. They sang of stars and stitched their dreams. By lantern light and winter’s chill, I kept them close; I held them still.

But time, she walks with quiet tread, and all who lived have long since fled.
My roof gave way to sky and rain, yet still I dream of them again. I see them when the grasses bend and feel them in the evening wind.
A figure here, a footstep there — old joys and griefs still haunt the air.

Through this rough window, once a door, I watch, I wait — I ask no more.