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Slow Motion Barn

September 16, 2008

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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  1. Ivy
    September 18, 2008 at 7:01 am

    Oh, wow, this is awesome with detail — great reading. Thank you.

  2. September 18, 2008 at 7:23 am

    Wonderful, resonant poem, entering the imagination and settling there. Beautifully read too. Thank you Tom Sheehan.

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