Painting the Barn

It’s not a real barn, like you’d picture in the country,

no stalls lined up for cattle and cow, a horse or two,

nor a loft rafter-stuffed with hay drying

and set aside for the coming winter months,

the mice burrowing there, settling in for the days ahead,

like us, settling into this home where we live now, barn-shaped

and in need of a fresh coat of paint, the old brindle

faded and chipped, ready for change, flaking off and falling

as I rest my ladder high to reach the eaves

and climb, tentative and hesitant, upward climbing,

the heights not bothering me, but bothered still

by aluminum rungs aquiver taking me higher and higher,

higher to where I hang my paint bucket, hooked

to a rung below me, secured, secure myself and ready.

The paint is a rich brown, a homey color, warm and earthy,

and dipping my brush, excess dripping and swiped away, I begin,

a steady brushing down and up and down and up, secure and alone,

for this is solitary work, solitary work to stay my mind;

a breeze slightly blows up here, carrying the scent

of woodlands, fir and pine and cedar, and loamy earth,

and an eagle calls, the mournful cry of a loon echoing

over the chatter of squirrels unseen in the trees around me,

unseen even as I disappear into my own soul

here atop this ladder, carried higher still amid bird calls

and the chipping, chirping voice of squirrels:

painting the barn alone, a fresh coat of paint,

ready for change, secure.