In The Rich Green of Spring Stand the Fenceposts

In the rich green of spring stand the fenceposts.
Locust wood. Strong. They never rot.
Dug deep and planted for a lifetime,
strung with barbed wire, galvanized
and nearly as eternal. False boundaries,
meant not to keep wanderers out,
but cattle in, sharp barbs pricking
thick flesh. It’s an old system.
It works.

In the rich green of spring stand the fenceposts.
So ubiquitous we never wonder how long ago
they did the hard work of digging deep
in the slate laced soil; we never wonder
why they were so determined, or what
they felt had to be so held in.

In the rich green of spring stand the fenceposts.
Likely they will stand long after I am dead.
Straight. Strong. Nigh on to eternal.
Until then, I will ignore them. Climb over them,
in and out to get closer to the things I love.
Dandelions. Old barns. Lambs. Love.
Rules and I have never gotten along well,

A dangerous habit that has consequences
I have always been willing to pay,
for the joy of moving field to field unimpeded,
freer thank intended. A little bullheaded.
A little more joyful than I should be.
Laughing sometimes as I climb the locust poles.
In the rich green of spring stand the fenceposts
more a decision than we realize.

About this poem

This morning I preached a sermon about inclusiveness. And this is the poem that slinked out after church as I settle into my favorite diner.

Oh, and rules and I really don’t get along too well.

Tom