In the cool, dark bottom of a barn,
a great weight above me,
enclosed silence,
I close my eyes,
and there we are again,
Tired and dirty at the end of the day,
satisfied by work and sweat
and the life we were building,
hearing the music of children in the yard,
gone now, memory like trampled earth,
powder on the sill I can write my name in,
or yours, our initials still there,
carved in a post forty years ago.
Even still there is music,
but I no longer know what it means,
our hearts spiked by errors and illusions,
yet still the heart beats on
as loud as ever.
