From Interview With a Farmer

Old Barn, Lost to Wind

Don't make 'em like they used to, wood inside
of wood, the chisel scars still splintered, waiting
for uncareful hands.  We wear gloves,
and without ceremony clear my yard.
"Inland hurricane," I say by way of
conversation.  "That’s what they call it."  Dad nods
and adds a plank to the pile.  "Quite a wind,"
he says.  Today is better.  Sunny and dry.
Our flannel shirts bear holes where nails have caught.
With hands on knees, inspecting a fallen wall:
"Well I'll be damned.  Just look at this," I say.
We look.  Two beams -- full oak trees, really, -- chiseled,
cut and fit together snug, a wooden
spike holding them together as
it has for eighty years.  "I doubt we'd even
know how to build 'em like that any more," says Dad.
"Shame," I say, and Dad starts up the chainsaw
and severs the beam.  The joint remains intact.

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