Quietness Of The Fence
© Surazeus
2025 05 13

Rob finds his fence half-buried in snow drift
in line of rails that time renders unsure,
some leaning, some snapped, and some lost to moss,
but still they trace his thoughts across the land,
so he sets his boot on one sagging beam
and feels soft hush of something waiting near.

Rob and his brother fought to claim this field,
neither giving ground, yet they had to yield,
so they built this fence, not to split the soil
but claim strict boundary to unbind their hearts,
one planting apples, and one tending maples,
for trees know which side they are rooted in.

Rob walks along the path the fence has made,
leaving traces of his steps in thin snow
where crows mark their blackness on sunlit white
as if to say, remember who has gone,
for their slow wings beat patient in the wind,
yet tell no lies in gloom of evening dusk.

Stopping to lift one rail back into place,
its wood gone soft, its hard nails rusted through,
Rob feels it give, then settle in rough hands,
as if to show it served as best it could,
for loyal fences understand too well
men only ever try to hold the line.

When sudden storm wind whacks the gate ajar,
Rob notes light tracks of some swift ghostly fox
that seemed to pause before she crossed the path
and wondered, perhaps, who had made this mark,
if human scent still lingers by the fence
of if the land is empty now of names.

When low sun flares in shards of crystal ice
and catches tips of trees in sudden flame
that makes the fence seem noble in its tilt,
as weathered spine that still stands firm on truth,
Rob sees his breath and knows the cold remains,
yet feels strange warmth from wisdom of the stars.

What matters is not whether lines remain,
but whether we can walk them with calm grace,
for the fence that lets wind through is no wall,
and though it frames the field, it chains no hill,
for man can mend what he is not ashamed
to say was built by hands of angered love.

With snow dust in his cuffs, Rob ventures home,
his shadow lengthened down the furrowed path
where still trees line quietness of the fence
that never speaks, but neither does it fall,
for its rails keep old memories of its place
and holds truth up for everyone to see.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/05/…

Orpheus meets Robert Frost in the woods mending his old fence, and accepts his invitation to drink moonshine and talk about philosophy of fences.

#Poetry #Poem #Pastoral #Necropastoral #MetaModernism #Transrealism #NewSublimity #NewRomanticism #AmericanDream #Cinemism #Existentialism #Surrealism #NegativeCapability #NewGnosticism #MetaRealism #NewTranscendentalism #Astarism