The old picket fence
A deep and strong youth has given way
to the fading power of age. Pieces
are now missing, never to be replaced. Posts
have bent with weary years, and pickets have been
pushed low, as though they are waves crashing upon the meadow,
having reached their journey’s end.
Dark color is now bleached, having slowly become
a rancher’s delight. There is a new beauty about it,
a semblance of days gone by, a deep nostalgia.
This once great border, having held in the cattle, or horses,
some beasts of burden, will now be taken in
to the homes of many, to greet welcomed guests
and their aged children, with grandchildren of their own.
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This Poems Story
I thought about writing this poem one early morning, as I drove by a beautiful old picket fence, that ran for miles along an old town's road. The sun was rising just behind it, and there was something about it that was deeply beautiful to me. It was nothing more than an old fence to everyone else, I'm sure, but I couldn't help but think of all the stories that fence held throughout the years.