Steep east slope damp,
tall green grass slick,
pale Pretty Faces hold their grins
beneath Buckeyes and Live Oaks—
heavy thatch of fallen limbs
holds the old fence down,
shelters a rat’s nest.
Nature has been winning
since I was here last
with the chain saw,
packing posts afoot
and splicing rusty wire
to keep cattle straight—
pretending to be in charge.
I see my mark: old cuts
with decomposing rings.
Not near as near
as in my mind—
four years since the low snows,
ten more for this six-inch growth.
Steep east slope damp,
tall green grass slick,
pale Pretty Faces hold their grins
beneath Buckeyes and Live Oaks.