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.
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