Sheltered in an Old Barn

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Pushed by gusts booming on the wooded hill,

lifting the plane of the pond, unsettling the grass

and me, a mistral wind stirred the primal

instincts that guided me to shelter in an old barn

on an old farm planted now by the next

farmer still farming in this every-other country,

and i entered the peace of the past with the motes

and spirits afloat in shafts of light, the souls

of men and animals i want to imagine still

there in the hair stuck in the adzemarks

and in the shine of oak handles polished by men's hands

and in the smell of life still rich in the grain,

the wind pouring through the broken panes,

a galaxy of knotholes brilliant on the western wall,

and i stayed longer than i should.