Pickets Poem by Bullion Grey

In a field of straight red pickets,
stood a little to the left, one crooked.
All others conformed in every detail,
none had faults, or flaws, never a fail.
This one-different from other sticks,
had cuts and bruises scrapes and nicks.
A little shorted, burled in spots,
not one of traditional haunts.
It stood a little out of line,
unlike other sticks it took it’s time.
As we drove by on that sunny day,
a farmer pulled it up…throwing it away.