Pretending to be a Barn

PRETENDING TO BE A BARN

Here I sit, alone in a field
pretending to be a barn. I hold
myself so still the cows could walk
right through me. Silence plants
my feet in deep, my heart deeper
then weathered wood. My eyes
like old glass windows, dusted
with lost days, are ready to hold
the new light.

If a duck walked in,
he wouldn't find me here.
Or chickens circling and
picking the ground. Even the wind
can't see me. My doors flap
and let anything in.

~Margo Lagattuta, Michigan writer and lecturer