An old barn holds
onto its dreams
and the day would bend
around with slices
of sunlight.
I would climb a mountain
to see that shadow
but when night slips
between loft
and door
moonlight pours
into tatty
darkness
weighs its bleakness,
chance
has become
unintended,
waiting for a sign,
and snow postures
for a place to lie
its head.
An old barn holdsonto its dreamsand the day would bend around with slices of sunlight. I would climb a mountainto see that shadowbut when night slipsbetween loftand doormoonlight poursinto tattydarknessweighs its bleakness,chance has become unintended,waiting for a sign,and snow posturesfor a place to lieits head.
By
—
Outside My Window 
Leave a comment