Rain and a red barn.
I am not sure why that image
Is comforting to me,
but it is.
A part of the landscape.
A part of the human condition.
The rain, the fog
Cleansing the blanket-like
Outline the veined grout
Stone foundation
That props planks
Of aged wood
that house.
Warm wet hay,
looks for toil,
Dark dank corners
Next to split boards
Patient and silent for
the sun.
Today, I know that
What I have been looking for
I have been looking with.
It is the journey
That speaks volumes.
The rise,
The crest into the mystic
Or the banal step of
One foot in front of
the other.
This path to the
red barn
In the rain,
Where once inside,
is still
and calm
And the slow, steady
Patter of rain,
Like a zen koan,
Like the breath of faith,
Waits for light.
