There are barns that reek with cruelty,
with white washboards of dirty gray decay.
They stand barren against the bleakly sky
broken and worn from another day.
The wind now blows through them,
making sounds when the boards vibrate.
The barn keeps rhythms of the past,
whether good or whether it forsaken.
The winter’s expressions slide down the eaves,
of snow and ice and barren ground.
Now alone with all the memories,
making cracking gray barn sounds.