Poem: The Silo


The Silo

The silo is all that is left.
The barn has fallen, a victim of fire and abandonment,
the rubble scattered around the barnyard,
Mice live there now, and little else.

The tractor shed leans to one side.
there is still a bit of paint remaining.
White clapboards. Red trim
around the classless windows.

Vines grow through the doorway,
spikey and green, thorny, and dangerous.
Inside an old Farmall rusts.
Birds now nest in the rafters.

The silo is all that is left.
Stark against the sky.
A rusted ladder still hangs on the outside wall,
strangely firm and solid still.

You climb. It is a flaw of yours, this need
to see what is there, in the forbidden
and dangerous spaces. To see
what has been left behind. And so you climb

There is nothing there. Empty space
punctuated by light
streaming in through holes and cracks
in the curved walls, just enough

to see the emptiness,
an uncomfortable dark yawing of space
where once nourishing grain once filled,
there is nothing.

The wind blows. There is a hollow whistling
and the walls sway. You climb down,
satisfied with your small adventure, .
softly sad that only the silo is left,

and it too is ready to fall,
another victim of neglect.

About this poem. 

Far more political than it seems. The things we neglect, fall.



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