Heavy hewn posts raised to the sky,
Rooved by brave men straddling the heights
to fasten the wooden slats.
The pride of the farm,
The years of plenty filled the barn with fragrant hay,
hay frugally used to feed the ravenous flocks
when barren skies withheld the liquor of life and
Successions of families filled with future hope.
Cycles of seasons.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the barn filled less and less.
The precious bales finally spent,
the remnant of straw the only legacy.
Year after relentless year the parched earth failed to release a crop.
The barn lay idle.
Shafts of light shone through the broken slats.
No one left to notice as wind and heat loosened even te biggest stays.
No one heard them fall.
The posts, once hewn by axe with texture smooth to touch,
now weathered, rough and splintered, split,
point skyward like totems of some ancient mystic cult.