Puckered and dry,
the last surviving post of fence
leans up against a barn,
for it can no longer stand on its own.
Sawn from an ancient farm oak, it was once proud and virile,
standing strong and true for over a century of service.

But time had stolen its purpose,
wrinkling and cracking its skin.

Blisters and crevices grabbed hold of my nylon jacket
as I wandered by, almost as if the fence was pleading with me.
I paused and photographed it so I would never forget.

After I left, it succumbed, patiently awaiting the scrap pile
and a fiery death.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
mighty oak is replaced with plastic.

[ by Robert Miller]