-This poem reflects on a weathered barn door where summer dust becomes a quiet record of labor, memory, and the enduring beauty of a well-lived place.

The weathered boards wear summer well,
their grain grown silver in the light,
while dust has settled in the seams,
where seasons meet and quietly remain.

The hinges know their measured song,
each opening slow with years of use,
the scent of hay still fills the shade,
though fields beyond have long been cut.

No hand has brushed the surface clean,
nor should it, for the dust belongs,
to harvests gathered, storms endured,
and mornings carried into dusk.

So much of late summer rests here,
not polished, but remembered,
the barn door holding in its grain,
the gentle weight of passing years.