Seven leaves and two tendrils
Brave the fence line teeming with
Untamed vines, volunteer trees and
Voracious weeds. Beyond all conceivable
Reach, the summitted realm of the rusted fence
Barren and bitterly cold even in the morning
Sun waits for the winner who will take dominion
Over all the fence can provide.
Armed with two hands, a sharp clipper and
Borrowed willpower, I hack and pull a raggedly
Clear path to the fence top. My gift to you, my
Young hop plant, the subtle smile of fortune that
passes by us so precariously, clears a path and is
Gone, leaving a lingering liberation for those who
Reach into the unknown and grasp for the link they
Believe is waiting just for them.