Silo

Where earth meets sky,
where low volume and echo reach,
small windows we wander,
the muttering wood and milkweed,
the thistle round about,
cloudward, gazing, skyward,
to the graying timbers;
the silica, pebbles and lime,
peeling bark and pine-tar,
in the remnants of the meadow,
where that promise stood,
of light,
of grain,
of everlasting coolness,
cupped in cattails,
rustling,
small, black serpents,
and bees,
rustling,
the folds of your dress,
rustling,
where you stood as a child,
wishing,
for the one.

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2 thoughts on “Silo

  1. You have a way of writing about objects, feelings, and dreams that frequently leads me to recall my own long forgotten memories.

    Silos were not a part of my youth, but tobacco barns, and sounds and sights of critters, and leaves, and crop rows abutting pine or oak forests do come to mind. I find myself digging deeper, wrapping myself in a dream to try to bring back those senses of smell, sound, heat or cold; to recall a time that is long past. Some memories can never be exhumed. That which felt like isolation and great distance, perhaps to the nearest farmhouse, or town square is now writ small by technology, transportation, and greater knowledge of what is on the other side of that stand of trees. The true feelings can never return, (I think Thomas Wolfe said that already). However, it’s not without some enjoyment that you have helped me dig up these memories.

    That is until you threw in “wishing, for the one”. What’s that all about? Just kidding. I have stopped trying to translate every word into some deeper meaning. Some thoughts are personal and can’t be accurately translated, or even understood.

    • Don’t question what is written. Question your question. : )

      Thank you for the comments though. I should post my story about a tobacco barn I stumbled upon in Maryland. In fact, I think I will. Thanks Daniel.

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