Barn, with Weather
The barn stands at the field’s edge
facing nothing. Not the house,
long gone, nor the road, which curves
out of sight. Only the open, vast
democracy of stalk and wind. Its
paint is a ghostly suggestion of white
that clings to the grain like an afterimage
of snow; its boards have split and warped,
like pages of a book left open in the rain.
The sky today appears in gradients:
smoke-blue, salt-blue, ink soaked in milk,
a ceiling coming loose at the seams
and streaming light that seems reluctant.
There’s a certain correctness to how the
structure weathers: collapse is not an event
but a series of small, careful concessions.
This is how some things leave themselves—
slowly, with dignity, a long slog in
time and sun. Meanwhile, the barn does
not resist being seen. It stands where put,
neither proud nor ashamed, only exact.
by James Gonda
from Rattle Magazine
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