GIVING IN

GIVING IN

The barn used to be red

but is giving in

to the bare woods

around graying

like autumn giving in to winter.

It's still standing

and so is my grandfather

and giving in

is always the hardest thing,

becoming the gift,

a home made of every nook--

barn swallows

and their nests of mud

grey pigeons under the eaves field mice,

the possum hanged

in the darkness

of the loft--

being emptied and

reclaimed.

Both lean under the weight of a

widening sky.

My grandfather

smiles,

the door wedged open

for me to slip in,

find myself a place.