I watch our barn go grey,
camouflaging itself with the sky.
Storms now pass it over, mistaking it for kin.
It’s my reminder that ingenuity comes with aging.

Over time, its hardware crumbled.
Loose sheet metal warbles from the roof when the breeze
lips it just right. I let it flap. Screwing it down
would silence its music.

A crosscut saw hangs above the door
rusting toward the ground. Each raindrop is a new wound.
I sacrifice it in the elements — allow its mural
to reach its conclusion.

Dutch elm took the tree by the silo.
I know it attracts termites, that its branches will snap —
but I let it stand. Every summer, woodpeckers
fledge from its core.