by Brother Placidus Henry
after Jane Kenyon
An aging barn standing alone
used to have a cross on roof.
Many families of mice started there
on the sweet-smelling hay at night,
though owners preferred rabbits to rodents.
Now, six inch planks that don’t quite fit together, squeak.
Unclear and dark, yet silver light
reflected two hundred thousand miles or more
enters through ill-fitting cracks
that still play their part,
as loopholes for the light.