Witness

It’s very still this Sunday on my walk,

a stillness deepened by the falling

snow. I pass by Old Man Bagley’s

barn with sagging roof and ragged hole

below the weather vane, and through

the broken boards I see a galaxy of tiny

stars that spiral in a column to the floor

of dirt and straw around a rusted tiller,

where a wheel of whiteness grows,

to die in secret with this witness; if not

for broken boards – no one at all.