Grandpa's Haymow (The Secret Place)

 We appreciate what we have after we no longer have it

 

I unhook the latch on the door and climb over the ancient
threshold of the haymow erected when grandpa was little.
The wind moans and groans through the cracks in the boards
and the door swings and bangs on its rusted hinge.
The smell of hay baled in summer and stacked for winter
from floor to rafters to a peekaboo window
the fun of seeing without being seen. But there—

A cache of eggs in a bowl of straw.

Brown and warm, chocolate and tan

Hens who like to sit, murmur, and coo

Beneath a watertight roof safe and secure.

Puffed-up doves preen in the rafters.

One flies overhead, east to west, the length of day.

Temperatures drop, wind rifts through the cracks

The sound of eaves dripping,

November come calling.

But the mow stays dry, a refuge from the farm on the farm.

I write in here. If I were a bird I’d nest in here.

If I were an owl, I’d sleep in here. 

If I were a architect I construct this here.

But they don't make barns like this anymore.

The resident cat from a long line of felines is on patrol.

When dad had dairy there were many of them.

Does she have a batch of newborns curled in a ball

In grandpa’s hay mow? 

A melodic song from high in the rafters

Stirs the hair on my arm.

No common sparrow this trilling song. Doves don’t mind

Our looking at them but somewhere up there—

Where no light can shine, nor eye can see

Perches an uncommon bird warbling a song.

My breath freezes in frame like a cat on the prowl

But this diminutive bird

Compelled to sing of the day 

Remains hidden from me.

 

For dVerse, a poem about a building that was more than a building to me.