How to love, with fences

There are limits to my love
as with fences
to remind us what’s ours
and keep things out,
keep things in —

Love is a word we use
for protection, like
all things defined there’s
a start, an end, and
arguments over what
it really means.

Love with fences and not
with leashes for love
is trust, walls made to
support,
not contain —
lines more like the horizon
than lines on a map, for
there are no lines like
that, not in space.

Love, like all things but
a word, lines in a script
anyone can read but only
some can make you
believe — to say my love
is limitless is a lie
as there are no lies in love,

as there are no holes
in fences.

Braided fence, West Seattle - July, 2015

Braided fence, West Seattle – July, 2015



Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

14 replies

  1. i love to tear down the fences –

    Liked by 1 person

  2. walls made to
    support,
    not contain

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I really love that quote! I think that it expresses so well what love is meant to be…

    Liked by 1 person

  4. This is such a beautiful, simple metaphor. You capture imagery so eloquently

    Like

    • Hey, so happy to hear that! I wrote this a few weeks ago and nearly forgot about it when I switched notepads, so I was glad to get it out yesterday. Sometimes when I write poems it’s like a Rubik’s cube, and it’s hard to get all the squares to line up. Maybe it appears that way if you look at it from one side…I’m hoping readers will see other sides of it too. Love is funny that way. Thanks for visiting, my friend. – Bill

      Liked by 1 person

  5. I can read it again n again
    And enjoy it with different interpretation :))
    Really Nice !

    Like

  6. Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall” has the lines “Good fences make good neighbors.” It is an interesting concept.

    Like

    • Yes, interesting concept and fun, you can do a lot with it I think. Frost’s “After Apple Picking” is one of my favourites for this time of year. Good to look at rotting fruit on the ground and contemplate one’s existence, the sometimes-seeming pointlessness, or the nice cyclic nature to it too.

      Like

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