by Kathleen Ripley Leo
I remember the barn in the fields that
autumn in '67, college hot in our blood,
the sweet man I knew who took me there
and the sun like pole vaults streaking
through the ample cracks in the ceiling.
Hay bales and wheel barrows cluttered the ground
and for a Chicago city dweller, the high ceiling
broke down barriers far more distant than
the tall loft. I had no language for the horse tackle
or any of the long handled farm tools strewn
in the bright dusty air. Just the good smells of the earth,
and small brown mice somewhere steaking thru
undetectable trails in the dirt.
The brown dirt so ready to give its commodious
permission to the benefit of our youth and its pasture.
(c) 2001 Leo