Not a Destination.
It is not a destination, this old barn
with its ragged paint and weeds.
It is not where you choose to go,
and yet here you are, in this place worth stopping,
not noteworthy, but interesting
for what it once held, and how it is survived
weather and neglect, and for how long.
You feel a kinship. A strange oneness
between thing and soul, and stand there,
About this poem.
Ever ask how you got to where you are? Ever encounter a thing that sang to you? Ever wondered what a person who loves you sees in you?
This poem is about all those things.
The picture was taken down the road and around the corner from where I live in West Pawlet, VT.