In the barn, time hangs. Other than motes swimming in light from broken peaks and illicit gaps, nothing hinders. Nothing gives. The smell of hay stings my eyes and in one inhalation, I remember a life I was never meant to keep. How small one can be in a barn-sized past.
It's the old beams that get me. Squared timbers, slivered. Weathered, yet intent. Our magnetic whispers call and respond: touch me – yes – familiar friend – looking well.
firsts and lasts fit to frame the always what is
I've thought about the ways in which the beams shelter. Yet also, the slavery they have seen. My recognition speaks of age and purpose and protection and decomposition and a sort of mounted beauty. They are something out of place, holding the world together.
And I have love for things like that. A bending moment?
arms of exaltation support and prison - either or both the path