Slacker

Stable

By Claudia Emerson

One rusty horseshoe hangs on a nail

above the door, still losing its luck,

and a work-collar swings, an empty

old noose. The silence waits, wild to be

broken by hoofbeat and heavy

harness slap, will founder but remain;

while, outside, above the stable,

eight, nine, now ten buzzards swing low

in lazy loops, a loose black warp

of patience, bearing the blank sky

like a pall of wind on mourning

wings. But the bones of this place are

long picked clean. Only the hayrake's

ribs still rise from the rampant grasses.

 

This poem reminds me of my great-aunt Olive's barn in Kingfield, Maine. There were farmers on both sides of my family, but none of us farm now.

 

I've gone missing, I know! But the long weekend that awaits (no school until Wednesday) will give me the time to progress on knitting, spinning, and exercise. Not that I've stopped; I just haven't devoted time to nattering on and on about it.

 

More tomorrow, with photos!