by brian francis
The farm lane was tall with weeds.
the tracks for tires, worn ruts,
parted by the tall grass, dancing
on the breezes of remembrance.
The barn was shedding its skin of paint,
flake by flake, curling away.
The boards still clung to the frame;
though the doors hung precariously,
leaning away from their hinges–
Pulling at the walls with all of their strength.
Barn owls and swallows claimed the rafters
screaming and bounding from beam to beam.
Dust swirled, and drifted in the shafts of light
shining through exposed ribs in the roof.
Where the slates had released their hold
taking to the skies in the storms of summer,
to shatter on the ground, becoming only stones.
A tree rising from the center of a broken floor
reaching for the sky with all of its will.
Protected from the harshness of the world outside,
it still, yet, tried to break free of its prison.
Mulberries stain the floor beneath it.
07/29/2003
Posted on 07/29/2003
Copyright ©2021 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 