The wooden western fence

separates our two properties.

It says this is mine, and that

is yours—clarifies our ownership

with succinct demarcation.

To our families, neighbors, the

world looking on, it says it all.

Frost noted that nobody really

likes a fence, and Sandburg

said only death and rain and

tomorrow can pass through

a border.

A fence is the age old

dilemma starting with Adam

and, mother of all living, Eve.

The tree in the garden of Paradise

didn’t look like a fence but was.

And Frost was right. People

just have to taste the fruit on

the other side of the wall. That

freedom of open borders glitters

like fool’s gold in a silver sparkling

mountain creek.

Borders break in time and

decay all on their own. They vanish in the

cold edges of night, in the dark

grinding, perishing erosion.

Even in this groaning and heaving

sub-paradise, lines turn to powder

sinking to ashes and the lowest

canyon without the repair and

upkeep of kind humankindness.

The fence is the raw law that did

teach us well, strapped around

our arms and wrapped around

our brains. It harnessed our bodies,

but not our hearts. But when the blinding

light buries the seed of change,

we pull us stakes. All grown

up now, we see our distorted forms in

the mirror of living words, shaped like

an invisible fence. Freely transformed,

to come and go,

we wager the fruit on

the other side of the free

and open meadow tastes

good, but not everything

good is essential. We spend a

lifetime unbuilding the fence

of separation board by

board and depend on the

well marked

delineation of ancient bloodline.

~Bonnie Saul Wilks, June 1, 2011, Estes Park, Colorado

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