Barbed Wire

Old leather gloves

and wound metal of barbed wire,

dry my sweating hands

from nicks and new scars’ ire,

so let this western red cedar

strong cross brace girdle

after I wind this last stick of myrtle.

Some wonder why I often rework

this unemployed fence,

I have no cattle now,

but this is the only way life makes sense.

Get me out early,

see my rising warm breath,

pour from my thermos—

I will take care of the rest.

Four more braces to build,

one more log to peel—

I have got old leather gloves

and wound barbed metal to feel.

I may complete the fences quickly

or take all year,

if they do not work as well as I planned,

I will tear them down and move them,

but I will still keep them in my sphere.

I need to keep moving to run far away

from disappointed thoughts

of regret, remorse, and delay;

sometimes, I work headlong for a sense of control

with a desire to share beauty and order.

I work on this old,

unprofitable farmland

to help my family, friends, and neighbors

to feel that so far out here,

we can still somehow

make it stay maintained,

improved, efficient, and conformed.

But, this land always grows

and tends to confound,

so it challenges and makes my past work omissions,

lack of time or money redound.

So, I will wake up tomorrow,

and I will most likely rework

another unemployed fence—

I have no cattle now,

but this is the only way life makes sense.