Holy Dust and Muted Yellow Hay
A long ago poem about a longed for place
Now that the June light is becoming more confident, I feel drawn to pull out this long-ago penned poem, The Barn, about the very sensory feeling of summer in the big barn at my Grandpa and Grandma Stein’s farm in Spencerport, New York.
Sadly, the family farm was sold back in July of 2021, but there isn’t a warm day that goes by that I don’t long for it all…
…the quiet floor of that barn under my feet
…the softness of the kittens purring between the just-baled blocks of hay in the loft
…my flushed face turned towards the sky, like a satellite, doing my best to catch the comings and goings of ancestors and ancients stirring in the still summer sunlight, all lingering in the heat of a cloudless, timeless afternoon - convening (it seems), just for a moment, just for me.
The Barn
Stepping into the hushed barn taught me that it is possible
to smell sunlight,
to taste the bee buzzing heat of an endless July day,
to hear my imaginary friend walk beside me,
to touch both memories and the time to come,
to feel the dirt on my hands like holy dust,
from which we came and to which we will go.
All of this, and more than words cannot wrap themselves around -
what a bequeathment of gifts
in exchange
for a single step inside,
paved with muted yellow hay.
(from my first collection of poetry, Like Gold)