Red Barn
Once it was colored an autumnal red
now it is a russet prop for the sunset.
The land has stacked evening around it,
a delving dusk has laid down years
of richly plowed shadows.
Within each cranny and niche,
each time-worn grain,
a soft twilight abides
even under daylights ferreting glare.
Seen against a late ebbing horizon
the barn blooms beyond its timbers,
it deftly fills-in the blush
of any half-painted sky.
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