For the Monitor
There was once an old barn,
on the road near my home,
boards weathered by past storms,
overgrown fields where horses did roam.
The rusted tin roof atop,
sheltering from the floor to the loft,
protecting all the farmer owned,
the memory of the hay so soft.
The years finally claimed the barn,
slowly over many winters’ past,
where there once was,
some things just don’t last.
I cherish my memories,
the pastures of fertile loam,
there was once an old barn,
on the road near my home.