Your humble beginning was a stone foundation,

Laid by the weathered hands of a farmer and a father.

You built up slowly, beams and boards your spine,

And finally you shone red as a fresh picked apple.

 

Your silo stood proud, through the snow, the sun, the rain.

The cattle lowed, sheltered by your high roofs.

The hay hills climbed higher in the loft,

Hanging heavy scents in the already musty air.

 

Your contents slowly dwindled, and you became empty.

Only the hay and a few reminders of the cows

Were left behind, as you were left to fend for yourself.

The dust and the silence hung heavy in the dusk.

 

Alas, you became a rarely visited graveyard,

For the unused machinery, hay, and equipment.

The only ones interested in you,

Were the cats and the children of your laborers.

 

Then, one drastic, devastating fall,

A twister came and tore you up.

Not destroying a building, but instead,

Seventy years of memories and hard work.