I was a barn for God, broken, gray, and tired.
The horses and the hounds all left;
The owls and the swallows rest
Their hollow bones on hay bale nests.
It seems my spirit has transpired.
The devil came as a farmer black.
He sent the animals away
And told no travelers to stay.
I couldn’t keep the rain at bay,
And all I have is lack.
Then came a holy bird in me.
He perched upon my weakest beam,
Told me it was time to dream
Of horse and hen and hay bale steam,
Of housing life resiliently.
“And as you shelter, never boast,”
He said from on the rafter.
“When you are strong hereafter,
And trade sorrow for laughter,
Rehearse what matters most.”
“You are no place for vaunting.”
My tired frame just nodded,
As the old bird hopped and plodded,
Singing of the home he spotted:
“I am here for haunting.”