The hands that drove the nails are dead
these many restless, fleeting years.
The very way of life has fled
hard life for which were shed no tears.

The trees caress the rusty tin
and weeds lean in upon the sills
I try to hear them once again
lost voices in these haunted hills.

But no, the barn's a landmark now
a gravestone for those older days
in its hall lies a rusting plow
a symbol of departed ways.

She skips around, that child of mine
to her this walk's all fun and games.
The barn that rots now in the pine
was built by men--I knew their names.