Red Barn in Snow

It’s simple things that take the most space.

Sea and sky, childhood’s watercolor summers,

Land, silence, loneliness, wind.

At the center of the field, the red barn

weathers another snowstorm. Its faded exterior

speaks of lean years, accumulated

losses. It sits where it always has,

not far from trees rooted in immensity.

I don’t think it matters if I tell you

what type of trees they are, or the names

of the dead who thought they owned them —

but I can’t stand here and not be sure

we’ll find our way back

to everything we believed about love.

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