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.
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