Under a grey veil of clouds, working arduously at the oxygen that nibbles at its rough skin, the fence mends two yards fashioned out of Earth and rain, sun and wind, salt and time, rubbing the abutment into a numinous fire of two families, proud and free, looking tirelessly into the trim prism of the future—a clock that spills color all over the trees that manifest their stolid presence with surety and erectness, green and strong… the vast universe in which we know to be endless and cyclical puts all parts in their place… and being no exception, the fence is warped and grey, dry and dilapidated, burnt and decaying on two acres of precarious life… this side is bustling and creative, volatile to its benign core, bearing a certain strain from years of seeming dissolution… the other is cleaner, newer and brighter… but of both I find solace in the mixing of the two, the insanely strewn pattern that the fence unfolds across this border is whole and natural, bent and safe, the purpose has been served in such subliminal ways that I don’t see a harrowed division of space, but one beautiful expanse of life...
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