Farmhouse

It was only a barn
nestled among the trees
protected by nothing
but an old rugged
wooden fence and a
regiment of mosquitos.
The silo hadn't been
filled in years,
not since the
corporate ranch moved
in and put the independent
out of business.
Rather than raise the
white flag
farming gave way to
hospitality
it was converted into
a bed and breakfast.
They cultivate quiet moments
not land
nuture souls
rather than crops
tend to marriages
instead of produce.
Thousands of stories
were written inside its walls
I wouldn't have heard
even one
if it wasn't for the
artist's pen.

--Shenandoah Lynd

Note: This poem was born from the above piece of art,
a drawing from my friend, artist and photographer,
Jon Hall.