If you climb to its loft
you’ll find the wood soaked with songs,
notes ringing from the rafters,
melodies mingled with memories.

If you listen real hard,
if you press your ear against one of its beams,
if you close your eyes,
you’ll hear it whisper,
“I’m just a daughter.”

You’ll be confused at first, of course,
because since when do barns speak?
But then you’ll hear yourself respond
in that same hushed, reverent tone,
“Me too.”

And it won’t make sense–
at least not in the way
that we like for things to make sense,
but you’ll know in your bones
those words are a beginning,

and you’ll start to sing.