The fence is left to morning glories,
The heft of their heaping vines -
Tendrils and leaves,
Flowers and seeds -
Each not the weight of a feather
But together they sag
The rusting chicken wire
On the four nails
Holding it to birch posts.
The fence is left to morning glories,
The morning is left to write itself,
And the glory is left to God.
Another beauty from Susan. The last three lines are sublime. Thank you so much for posting this one.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
beautiful Lillian...belongs to the holy books....man created the fence, when it's broken, he must fix it, God created the vine to crawl and crawl it will, and the sun will rise every morning....