Weathered Wall

(A Salute to Robert Frost) A fence of hand-hewn rock spans miles of wind-swept road through fields of grain. Uneven edge of rock, worn smooth by storm’s hard breath of gust and rain withstands the force which seeks to bend or break a monument of time. It hugs the earth and thumbs its nose at energy so misaligned. It boldly stands today as yore, protects both wheat and corn for miles and welcomes only human form to walk beyond its stalwart stiles. But flush against its weathered brow there leans a heavy-laden tree with pungent scent and rose-red glow, forgotten apples hanging free for horse or deer or bovine teeth to reach across unyielding stone and quench a thirst or hunger keen with only crunch to thus intone. May some always so hang, unpicked, may much escape our stated plan a fruit or such forgot and left, to nibble sweetness with no blame.