End Times
The silo, empty, has
shifted toward its
obsolescence.
Built like a barrel,
it rots like one:
mold-softened planks
dissolving, wood & iron—
now just rust—
meld and powder and at last
subside. Termites
and carpenter bees
dismantle the rest.
It once held grain enough
to feed a head of cattle
gone, no lowing sounds
along the muddy creek
where the silo stood
full, upright
as a carillon tower,
a hymn of silage
amid mown fields.
What is contained
when the container’s
abandoned? Something
that pulls
the structure
over, the specific gravity
of absence
the hollow meaning
of after.
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This poem is exquisite…
the carillon tower, the hymn of silage, the specific gravity of absence, the hollow meaning of after…
reach the very essence of existence and no longer. Congratulations, Ann.
Perfect. *sighs contentedly*