Barns at Night

Back in the beginning of my homecoming quest — autumn 2003 into spring 2004 — I was especially drawn to barns. Old farms with barns, non-farms with barns, and properties either nothing but barns. My real (albeit still hypothetical) and metaphorical desire to return home, even “my notion of home and my personal perspective on “homeness” evolved and ripened any time a property included bygone barns. I’ve explored this plenty elsewhere, so tonight I’ll touch briefly and obliquely on the image of barns, our barns, Rosslyn’s barns at night. 

Illuminated against the night, glowing golden bronze, in a sea of black, this rendering of the barns at night reminds me how important utilitarian outbuildings were when I was trying to figure out where and how to nest for a while. I’m not sure it’s wise to describe barns as beacons, but — at the risk of convention meddling and metaphor muddling — I’m going take the risk.

Barns at Night

Timeless structures,
midfield or fieldless,
behind home or not,
stone foundationed, 
stonewall bordered,
barn boarded with
board and batten
or clapboard
or scab-boarded
with whatever
lay about, leftover.  
Once utilitarian
arks for farmers,
for forbears,
arks hard worn
but durable, 
enduring beacons
guiding me home.

Feels okay to share this still rough draft since barns at night do not pretend to impress, to be refined or fancy or even finished. They exist as parts of a process, and this piece of poetry is, if nothing else, a part of my process.