Replacing slate with bitumen,
crumbling shiplap with new tongue-and-groove,
we sweat the same as those other men
who raised this crooked barn
and who, we’d like to think, would still approve.
Like elders speaking in low tones
to kids who ask about the recent dead,
the ancient headers creak hoarse groans.
In wind, the rafters strain
as thunder grumbles closer overhead.
We marvel at the wonky wall
wedged into the hill so horses, goats or cows
could drift from pasture back to stall
without the farmer’s prod—
or we assume, shrugging at flails and ploughs.
Planks termites haven’t gnawed to sand
retain old hammer dents and kerfs from saws.
Who knows what those who toiled by hand
would make of, or make with,
our front-end loaders and our zoning laws.
As if anticipating us,
they improvised the hipless gambrel’s slant
and rigged the struts for each bowed truss
so steep it shouldn’t stand
(we’ve tried to realign them but we can’t).
We yank square iron nails from boards
and trade farm implements for farm décor,
clearing eaves of nesting birds
to patch roof gaps in rain.
Where no door’s hung for years, we hang a door.
Second Place — 2025 First Things Poetry Prize
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