A Barn

It once was useful, and maybe even noble.

Now gravity's unrelenting tug warps and sags its timbers,

yet it beckons passersby with nostalgic anticipation.

It may have been red long ago, but now the barn is gray, 

brushed with too many empty days 

when only the sun moved, and the amber, dying grass.

I see it on the hillside, looking wise.

I cannot resist.

My approach is not without the seed heads in the socks,

and the uneven terrain threatens my ankles.

Whatever dangers, though, I persevere.

Its southern window calls to my mind's eye.

The darkened opening promises a trapezoid of time-worn artifacts.

Surely there is something to be garnered here:

Precious truths that old stuff may distill or may ignite--

memories of lives and ways now gone

that may prove useful in a pinch.

Several shards of glass still keep their stubborn hold,

and the jambs and sill have twisted,

its lumber trying to remember being trees.

This only feeds my interest to explore

the insides of a structure built for function.

Hairy splinters thwart my desire to grip the weathered wood,

and so I crane my neck and stand on toes to peer inside.

The darkness slowly wanes as my eyes adjust to new light.

Dust, a few dead spiders and more dust

are all that I observe.

It is the road that bekons now,

this barn only fit for landscape portraiture or paint.

A disappointment, sure, but one that fills a void for curiosity.