12.28.14 Old Barn of My Days

The barn was old, quiet. Situated at a forgotten junction. Locked up . A few rolls of hay pressed into the shelter of the indented front area , where, years ago, as I walked from my crappy VW, enormous regal German Shepherd by my side, to my UMass classes; no notion yet of real jobs or birth giving or serious falling in love , I would see the beautiful faces of various horses looking out of their stalls, down the open halls, or being led to places across the then two lane road, to graze or ride or run free. And of course , then , the two of us would stop by, saying hello to every single one. 

But that is over now, the magnificent new facility for the University built as I left the school, as I grew my family, as I grew real jobs of comfort and joy. 

Across from the peeling boarded up building was built another, that mirrors the exquisite form of it's roof, it's structural cavalades; an architect seeing the wisdom behind the original design. 

But that is over now, the magnificent new facility for the University built as I left the school, as I grew my family, as I grew real jobs of comfort and joy. 
Across from the peeling boarded up building was built another, that mirrors the exquisite form of it's roof, it's structural cavalades; an architect seeing the wisdom behind the original design. 

So now we have the elder form, abandoned, and the echo of its beauty, in a complex nearby, that has architecturally gone on to crossbreed with several new buildings and complexes, all small songs from this original , now aged form.

And yet now and again, before they were done with the elegant building ,with its turrets and twirls, cut deeply into hard reddened wood, before I had three-but just one small one, we would come by the morning after our nighttime books with stories of city horses and country horses. 

Not being a horse person, yet a person who loves and yearns to understand all living beings; who was determined to bring my small ones to all sorts of places , and introduce them to learning ease, everywhere at home; 
we would go by the next day , and step into the sweet pungent darkness to say hello to one bright eyed intelligent creature after another , 
the soles of our sneakers silent , as we proffered carrots and stroked silken muzzles 
and murmured those constant quiet phrases just as you do with small people; 
hand in hand, I with my young one, ever inquisitive, going by again and again.
So that now, on a blustery quick-and-chilled November morning, I pull the car over. My children grown. My beloved job left far behind. My body querulous , my time my own. 

I circle the old darling, glancing at the boarded up windows, seeing the quiet lives of the c reddish vines, as they create their own tangled masterpieces now; for now is their time. 

Bright leaf and stem, tangled like a rich hued brocade down the midline of a long forgotten window , 
as it's dusted glass glazes and reflects the light from the overcast day; 
the thrill of the years , as wild vines contrast against the powder blue painted walls someone at sometime chose with delight, 

perhaps not imagining this moment of creation we have before us now . 
The deserted. The let free. The self-determined evocation of life that brings to us great creation, in and of its own yearning , and irrepressible spirit to live where it may.