Sun bled through the age-tinged windows,
seeping across the interior of this barn so old,
particles danced in the sunlight,
with dust-coated stories untold.
Hidden in the afternoon sun,
obscure and forgotten, all alone,
in this place my family had lived,
the next generation had grown.
There was an old toolbox,
scarred, dented and no longer bold,
letters carved into the top,
grandfather’s name so very old.
This box contained his tools,
as well as the minutes of his life,
tools worn smooth from use,
he supported his children and wife.
A box full of memories,
still residing in the winter cold,
sun bled through the age-tinged windows,
seeping across the interior of this barn so old.
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