While Trespassing I Note the Sadness of Old Fences

Posted on by

While Trespassing I Note the Sadness of Old Fences

I write poems when I can,
in late morning or during

the afternoon, between chores
but before dinner. And sometimes

I duck through spaces
void of wire barbs, and consider

how to fill the incomplete, which words,
what materials could repair

those particular holes. I cut my own
fence once, to access our house

when the creek flooded the road,
lugging uphill through the snake

grass a jug of scotch, my mandolin
and a watermelon, essentials for a weekend’s

respite. To be truthful I cut only the lowest
strand, to help the dog get through — I

was able to climb over, but he couldn’t dig
through the limestone rubble to wriggle

under, and we’d come too far
to simply turn around.

* * *

This appeared in riverSedge, Volume 29, Issue 1, released in October 2016. I first encountered riverSedge in 1983, and vowed that one day my poetry would be published in this journal. It took a while…

14 thoughts on “While Trespassing I Note the Sadness of Old Fences”

  3. This brings back memories of growing up in the rural South. Most of those farms have gone to seed, and the barb wire fences where cattle once roamed have rusted away or been torn down by deer hunters.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply ↓

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.