There are those who love to see
a barn upon a hill.
Especially if it’s painted red;
they seem to get a thrill.
Nostalgic vibes attack their minds,
and though they wonder why,
that barn sets off a rush, designs
a mental stimuli.
Intriguing thoughts were planted there
in years before they’d grown.
Maybe seeds got in their hair
when they were not alone,
and hay became a hiding place
to talk, so quietly,
and look upon a friendly face
with resonant energy.
Or was there an exciting swing
with rope that dangled free.
Where tummies thrilled as they took wing
and sailed out breathlessly,
falling in sweet smelling hay,
precluding any pain.
It made them quickly climb, and say,
“Here I go again.”
The love of barns sneaks up on those
at times, they don’t know why.
We see them write exciting prose
about a barn, and sign,
then, as they dream, and so compose
a lovely story poem,
about a barn, they then disclose
they want it for their home.