The old gray barn, now babe reborn,
all swathed within this winter storm,
which no forecaster picked for here
so early for this time of year,
when leaves just kissed their branches bye
as squirrels darted fro and high,
between the leaning beams and rails,
their faded paint and rusty nails
reminding how much time had passed
between this season and the last.

How fit for postcards sent to friends,
this picture-perfect scene that lends
some innocence belied by snow
now blanketing each road to slow
our drive to leave this dream behind,
even though those papers signed
transfers the deed and sets a term,
to vacate per a certain firm,
just let us take a parting look,
retrace our steps beside the brook.

We'll soak it in, this closing day,
remember why we hoped to stay,
give thanks the weather gifts relief
to ease our loss, this sense of grief,
detain us at these dusky hours
to bid farewell to what was ours,
take comfort in this lovely sight,
when old seems new, and ice feels right.