A Farm Woman Looks at Her Barn

I never noticed how bent boards get.
They seem to want to get away, like the one
that did. Can’t even remember when.
I never liked red. Why we paint barns
some shade of dried blood, then let them
fall apart beats me. It stands out there,
old rhino swayed in the back, horn waiting
to take whatever lightning sends down
and feed it to the mice crouched in the cribs.
No one tells you you spend most of your life
looking at something. Me, it was a barn.
The side of a barn. Everything I’ve known,
been, thought. There it is, rough, plain, right there.
I mean to nail those boards back down some day.

            for John Gardner