rusted out

a single strand of rusted barbed wire
tacked to an old gray fence post

and broken off on both ends hangs
suspended in space and out of place

while just below a patch of daisies
in blooms of yellow and white

invite a steady stream of honey bees
that dance in a rhythm much older

than time and beyond the remains
of this fence a field of knee high

clover circles old man jenkin’s
weathered rotary tiller anchored

in mud for the past twenty years
yet once clearly indispensable

but that’s the funny thing about
the tools at our disposal which

we cling to as implements of
our diversions until one day

having outgrown their usefulness
they are lost or left behind.