Old Barn

Old Barn
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The old barn in the lumberyard
seemed a place of mystery
inviting yet forbidden
a place for wild games of tag

Entering through a driveway with no gate
eyes scanning for police
then through an unlocked door
in the side of the great old russet barn

(Who leaves things unlocked these days?)

We mounted rafters:
hearty hickory and chestnut beams
some as wide as our waists
deep brown and cracked with age
yet solid and without rot

Musty sweet smell of aged wood and sawdust
calming and idyllic
our living in the moment,
though one day came no more
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For youthful games gave way—stout beams,
wine-colored as dusk falls.

Some time after I had written this poem, upon rereading it, it reminded me of Robert Frost--perhaps for his nostalgic (perhaps "bittersweet" would be better) reminiscences of youth. I must have been around fourteen at the time, 1970-71. I recall this scene so clearly, the sweet, vaguely mustly wood scent of the hefty hundred-year-old chestnut beams. I and three of my mates snuck into the lumber yard through an unlocked gate one summer evening and ran wild in the rafters of the century-old barn. It's a pleasant memory, one I enjoy revisiting from time to time. The barn must have had historical importance, because some years ago when the lumber yard was closed and replaced by commercial development, the barn was taken apart and reassembled in a nearby park, where it stands today. 

https://www.howardgiskin.com/
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