Under the white quilt
of its steep roof
that slants down
nearly to the ground
the barn seems neither more
nor less alive
in its dark timbers
the the oaks that flank
it's sides
as if to shield it
with their overarching tracery
of winter black
the field in front
is pocked with darker spots
where weeds and blackberries
poke through the snow
the whole gives an impression
of a world asleep
deep in its memories
of distant summer days