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]