The barn is quiet, though seldom silent.
Sibilant breezes whisper greetings to each
stall, loft, remenant hay stalk,
just now, a flutter of wings, some
wandering pigeon seeking roost.
But, no mare, no jersy, no clucking chicken
hears or cares to hear
ghosts echos here.

This farm is gone.
What wheat and barley grew in abundance
is pricker weed and golden rod.
The big house collapsed years back,
this square beamed barn will stand a while
but follow soon enough.
Gone down the way of all our days,
dust in rain rivers down the gully,
divides, disperses, dissappears in dirt,
as we.

No one will hear our whisper,
no one cares to hear though
we might wish it so.

The forever wooden box,
the bed in which we sleep
echoes our last thought,
last thought,
last…