Walking through that amber field
With noonÂday sun cutÂting through
The September day,
I approached an old weathÂerÂbeatÂen
Barn perched amid swayÂing
Tassles of autumn grass.
The barn, with rustÂing metÂal roof
And sideÂboards warped and bent
Cried of neglect
And the ravÂages of time.
Resisting the urge to run my finÂgers
Along the rivened boards,
To osmose their years,
To glean the stoÂries held there,
I glanced upon an old rusty nail
Bent and weathÂered by the years,
Driven too careÂlessÂly
Into the wood.
And left as a reminder
Of the day this strucÂture rose.
The nail proÂtrudÂed proudÂly
As if in defiÂance
Of its misÂshapen counÂteÂnance
And the decades of weathÂer
Which tried in vain to wear it away.
Its shadÂow flowed galÂlantÂly
Down the length of the board
Holding it in eterÂnal grasp
Half disÂgorged, half ensconced.
One day both nail and board
Will be gone, forÂgotÂten
As time and man take their toll
No more shadÂows, no remains
No memÂoÂries.
Just gone.
