The Old Iron Hinge on the weathered barn door—
Been doing its job for ten decades or more.
One wing grips the wood like a man holds his wife;
The other in stone hanging on for dear life.
The door shows its age. It is broken and gray,
And parts of its bottom were eaten away.
It's hanging there, open, the old clasp is gone.
It swings in the wind, but the hinge still holds on.
Whose hands heated metal and hammered it out?
Those hands that were sturdy; the arms that were stout,
To make it quite flat with a soft curving shape.
No stray lump or sliver would dare to escape.
The frame wing was planted in stone with great skill.
In those days, the craftsman would use a hand drill.
The knuckle and pin turn the door with a squeak.
No signs show of care spent on this wrought antique.
But one time this barn was a source of great pride,
When horses pulled plows and the door opened wide.
The stock that took shelter have all gone to rest.
The mice rule the barn now. Two birds tend their nest.
The holes in the roof let in snow and the rains.
Some holes in the walls show a view of the plains.
The barn sits alone in the lee of a hill.
No use for it now, but the hinge hangs on still.