Becoming Timeless

Near the top or the ridge the barn sits.
Not a shred of paint left, but the bones are good.
Not used, at least not today.
There are no tractor tracks through the weeds.
Windows are shuttered.
Here and there machinery sits to the side,
not rusted. Signs that at times, work is done here.

But not today. Today it is still,
presiding over the slow change of the seasons,
the quiet coloring of the valley below.
The harvesting of corn. The bales of hay drying.

And so, you stop. Borrowing the silence of the barn.
Stepping into it. Becoming timeless.
a thing that only happens in the lonely places
and halfway through the perfect kiss.

About this poem

I was once told I had “an unusual sense of time” It was not a compliment. It was also true. Past and present and future sometimes all intermingle, get mixed up. I am prompt in the moment but talking about life, I am liable to get dates wrong. I wish I could say it was old age, but I have been that way all my life.

The leaves are starting to change here. This is not going to be the brightest of seasons. A lot of trees are going straight to brown, bypassing the Palette Vermont is famous for. Still, I love watching the change day to day.

I have had a shortage of solitude lately.

Now and again, even at my age, a perfect kiss stops time.

From all these things, this poem. Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom