Old Red Barn

The men who came
with crowbars and hammers,
didn't know my history.
All they saw was antique lumber
that could be sold board by board,
perhaps for flooring
or to create a decorative wall.
Sadly, they didn't care
about the moo of cows
who spent their winters
between my walls,
the laughter of children playing
in the hayloft, or meow of the cat
showing off a prized mouse.
Nor did they know about the tickle
of hay on soft pink skin
when first tasting love on
a secluded Saturday evening.
They'd never felt winter wind
seeping through the chinks
or the weight of snow
on my steep pitched roof.
When they stopped for lunch
I felt naked and exposed,
knowing that by day's end
my faded red boards
would be hauled away,
re-purposed as someone's
dining room floor.