The Old Barn and the Open Door

The old barn tell is telling stories that might not

be true.   Its roof is sagging, shingles

dangling, half bare really.  Overgrown

pine branches have settled on it

like tired arms, dropping pine cones

to roll into random piles in the golden

grasses below.  A red barn once, it now

shows faded, ruddy patches between wooden

boards, worn free of paint, soaked in

hues of mossy green and gentle brown and beige.

The old barn watches with window eyes that tilt

different ways, the kind that watch, that have

seen seasons of sadness and years of abundance,

eyes that don’t close.  The mouth is that door,

scratched and worn, knob broken off years

before.  It never quite closes, and always seems

to whisper as you pass.  The old barn is telling

stories again, with the door that won’t shut.Image