my father's barn
Gingerly, she climbs to
where the wood has weathered, and
the latch, is rusted and black.
Gone from brown, it
eases away. Light pierces
the darkness, through every crack
and knot hole, she climbs
to warmth and wades,
through hay, past steamer
trunks and packing
The garden yields thick bottle
rims, stirrups, a buckle, a bit
of old leather. Egyptian onions'
purple plumes, line the fence.
Chocolate mint, overgrown,
and rudbeckia sprouts
nasturtium's winding tendrils,
Hay, golden, like a Vermeer, swirls
and turbulent spikes, make flat long
pleats of similar lengths, braided and
golden, catching the sun.