“Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes,
and shrewd in their own sight!"
The old barn in the distance
is a sudden, sour metaphor
of all that you avoided
giving a single moment’s thought.
All the things your old man knew,
the things he could have shared,
you left to molder where he kept them
in a long neglected storehouse.
Polished treasures in his keeping,
finely crafted insights,
unused, they withered down to nothing
beneath a canvas tarp of his discretion.
He stood aside, yet always ready,
as you blundered onward,
too green to think he had much
that could ever be of value.
All those things so neatly stacked
he would have given to you freely,
things you gathered on your own,
paying dearly to collect them.
Some sagacious word, apt and timely,
might have steered you better
if you’d let him see your lack,
your barren store of common sense.
The storehouse once so richly filled
ignored, is resting now,
the silo, stalls, and cribs
at peace, all blown away to dust.