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His eyes peered down the old rusted
barbed wire fence, his look became longing
as if in defense, his dry lips parted and he
began to say, as with the fence his hands
began to play.
To some this is a barrier, to me its the
strands of life. Each post lined up to suffice.
So each strand of wire stretched straight and
true, never guaranteein' that somethin' wont
get through. You see those barbs theyre for
defense, like life itself we all have a fence.
Then slowly removing his hands from the
wire, he pointed out a post that had caught
on fire. Proof that not everything respects this
man made barrier, as we see so much in life
that we are rejected. But the post still
stands and so must we, still be tall, proud,
and free.
The places it had been mended were
many. But the fence still stands, he
cleared his throat, because it was never
neglected and fixed when it broke.
Nurtured by hands that cared, like the
hands of God, the gift of life he shared.
So like the fence if we take heed and fix it when
in need it shall go on.
But not forever, because like life it gets
to old. The mended places no longer hold,
but in its place a new one will be built.
He then turned to the mountains his face
was worn and just like life a new child will be
born.
Copyright ©2003 Denise O'Byrne. All rights reserved.
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