“I have always thought of stables, barns, and sheds as little temples -- their odd light, their strange coolness, the very particular smell of hay or wood or gasoline -- was special, almost holy. There's a painting by Andrew Wyeth, which this poem shares a title with, that evoked all of that for me.  It gave me that old sense I used to have when stepping into a barn or walking through a stable.  I have never felt so entirely present in a place as that.  It's exhilarating and miserable and permanent and ephemeral.”

Stephanie McConnell is from Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Ponder Review, The Paterson Literary Review, The Dewdrop, the Under Review, BarBar, and The Worcester Review.  She now lives in New England, but still only writes about Pennsylvania.