The Old Barn

                 1

She's dismantling, you know.
To gain an extra edge of field,
they're pulling her down--
piece by red-flecked piece,
bit by bit, skin and sinew--
all the way down
to her chambered heart.
What last stories sigh
as the orange-white sun
crests the fields' edge
and first light blesses inner rooms
from brown to gold?


                 2

The neighbor made a wren house
from her salvaged sides.
It sits atop my desk--a bit odd,
like a box of ashes on the mantle.
The window behind it frames
a long tooth of ice and a single city star.
The neighbor says the birds nest soonest
in old wood.