qarrtsiluni

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 herd 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.

by Ann E. Michael

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