Slow Motion Barn
A mole tortures underground,
a host of bats above, like gloves,
hang to dry in dimmest light,
and in twisted byroads and
blossoming paths the termites,
carpenter ants and dust beetles
chew cuds of oak-hard sills.
Square nails, blunter than cigars,
suddenly toothless, a century
of shivering taking its toll,
shake free as slow as worms.
For all the standing still
there’s action, warming, aging,
the bowing of an old barn
at ultimate genuflection.
by Tom Sheehan
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Categories: Transformation
Oh, wow, this is awesome with detail — great reading. Thank you.
Wonderful, resonant poem, entering the imagination and settling there. Beautifully read too. Thank you Tom Sheehan.