The red barn still stands beside
a road so stony no grader
has ever kept it smooth. The wall
that catches the sun is covered
in poison ivy clean to the eaves.
Even on the hottest afternoons
the ivy keeps its lush, rich green.
The once-scarlet paint has weathered,
but come autumn a jubilation
of flaming ivy lights up every
fleeting day that we may adore
and begin to imagine
a beauty beyond our own human
creations, our own finite lives.
