The Conversation of Wood: poetry

Julie L. Moore 

Across the street, the barn,
half-razed & hanging tough
since last summer,
has come undone.

 

The tin roof, despite its protests,
finally surrendered.
Wrenched free while hinges
hollered, the door now

 

lies upon the lawn.
Beams & joists bowed
to long-winded pressure
while rain’s cruel voice

 

injected itself, time & again,
into the conversation of wood
once engineered with civility.
This is how it rots:

 

A few suspicions sour
the tongues in their grooves
& breed. Then: the rafters
no longer seem righteous.

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