The fence man builds again. Swept up in this towering concrete mess of walls and drawers we have forgotten
the silent rural exodus of my grandfather and your grandmother and consequently us.
Gone with the attic clutter is our knowledge of deeper things,
the weight of nine inches of snow on a barn, the ache of tired muscles and their response to good food.
I’ve cried at dawn plump with the yearnings we’ve hushed.
Somewhere behind the hedges we’ve hidden the importance of sacred things.