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.
