Its boards are loose, and warped, and weathered.
Shingles flyin’ in the wind.
Timbers leanin’, ridge pole sags.
A hundred seasons done it in.

Settin’ lonesome, sad, neglected,
seems to sense it’s end is near.
Recollections long forgot—of
friends with hammers workin’ here.

~Sam A. Jackson~


To see postings of others participating in January's Monochromatic Challenge click HERE