I look down the street
and into the yard.
I cannot go out,
I cannot get far.
For I am a fence,
rooted here to the ground,
it’s hard when you’re stuck
with no way to get out.
If I had some wings
I would soar far away,
and if I had feet,
I would not surely stay.
But I am a fence—
all ruddy,
stuck still,
built on the lawn
by the house
on the hill.


© Katherine Steffeter