As any good poem is always ending,
The fence looks best when it first needs mending.
Weathered, it hints it will fall to pieces —
One day, not yet, but the chance increases
With each nail rusting and grey plank bending.
It’s not a wonder if it never ceases.
In beauty’s bloom you can see time burning:
A lesson learned while your guts are churning.
Her soft, sweet cheek shows the clear blood flowing
Towards the day when her looks are going
Solely to prove there is no returning
The way they came. There’s a trade wind blowing.
We know all this yet we love forever.
Build her a fence and she’ll think you’re clever.
Write her a poem that’s just beginning
From start to finish. You’ll wind up winning
Her heart, perhaps, but be sure you’ll never
Hold on to the rainbow the top sets spinning.
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