The Perfect Mix
The small barn is no longer used.
Up close, you can see the paint peeling
and the cracked panes of glass.
But here, from a distance,
in the snow, surrounded by silence
it is a perfect mix of memories.
About this poem.
I have a particular love of old barns, and there are many near my home. They bring back memories of my grandfather’s barn, hay in the loft, corn stored for feed on the main floor, and pigs wandering in and out of the lean-to shed. Even at a distance, I see a barn and all those sights and sounds and smells rise. A perfect mix of memories.
This one is in Durkeetown, NY. My friends at Durkeetown Baptist will recognize it.