the mangled wire fence on its third or fourth life

the mangled wire fence on its third or fourth life surrounds the fruit trees and rows of onions and climbing beans on my parent’s property like barb wire in trenches stretched across 1942 french countryside, a sign of the endless battle between man and deer

the cold weather kiwi vines, male and female, grow over an arching trellis to hold hands and cuddle above a love seat where couples can kiss in the shade with the scent of basil hovering across the grass brown from august’s long days, perfect for watermelon and ice tea and flowing my dad as he shows off his vegetables and a tractor from the 50’s that still runs as good as when his grandpa bought it at the hardware store downtown, but I stop, unnoticed, his voice growing dimmer as the tour continues without me to stoop over flowers that my niece planted from seeds in the spring, thankful for their unplucked and long full life, lived here in the corner of wired in compound behind enemy lines

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