my father's barn

Written by: Merle Manu

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
crates. 

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, 
loose dirt. 

Hay, golden, like a Vermeer, swirls 
and turbulent spikes, make flat long 
pleats of similar lengths, braided and
golden, catching the sun.