It's wizened frame protrudes into the atmosphere,
it stands one hundred feet high, if not more,
and it's age surpasses a century.
In length it's body is bowed,
as if from the burden of many years
it has hunched over like the back of a worn, old man.
The floor sags as if the years of plenty and poor
have finally taken their toll.
Remains of hay and oats lay on the floor boards,
as a blanket of orange needles does a forest floor,
mixed with mildew and pigeon dung.
The cycle of life is that of decomposition.
A perfect paradise for creatures of all kinds;
mice, rats, an occasional opposum or raccoon, swallows and bats.
It's once industrious spaces now give rent to wild nature.
The roof above now sheds light into the dusty, darkened shell.
Shingles stolen by heavy winds reveal it's bald, wooden skull.
A ladder climbs the Southern wall like a spine
and at the top, in the crossbeams of a small window,
a sparrow chirps the oracles of life.
From whence it came, thence shall it return.
Below, young livestock find shelter from a Northern, winter wind
while above lucky gusts find a rest after whistling
through cuts and wounds that missing wall boards have created.
How much longer it shall stand it knows not.
It lives to tell of the years past with pride,
through decrepit it may be.
It greets the new day and wishes the night farewell.
Though it was wrought by the hands of man
it humbly declares the greatness of the Eternal God.
It quakes with praises and whispers gratitude
that it has provided aid to His wondrous creation.
