The Cost of Surrender

You can remember, three years ago,
when they put the storm fence in.
slats all fresh and tan, gleaming in the sun;
stakes straight and unbowed. It felt strong.

Three years in and the wood is grey.
Storm worn. Sun worn. Slats are broken.
Parts of the fence lie on the ground. Surrendered.
It still protects. Just not as well and not as completely.

Still. It has been enough. The seagrass has survived.
Grown. Spread. All because of the protection
of the storm fence set in place.
It is in that pivot place now.

Do you repair it, extending its life a few years more,
or surrender it to the weather and start anew.
Each choice has its cost and each has its advantage.
Each take will and strength and work.

And a decision
on the cost of protection,
and the cost of surrender.

About this poem.

About sands, dunes, and storm fences. About nations and what we are or were or want to be. About ourselves and what we are, or were, or want to be. Poetry is never about one thing.

The photograph was taken outside Provincetown, Mass.

Tom