Swept Up

The fence man builds again.

Swept up in this towering

concrete mess of walls and drawers

we have forgotten

the silent rural exodus of

my grandfather and your

grandmother

and consequently us.

Gone with the attic clutter

is our knowledge of

deeper things,

the weight of nine inches of snow

on a barn, the ache of tired muscles

and their response to good food.

I’ve cried at dawn

plump with the yearnings

we’ve hushed.

Somewhere behind the hedges

we’ve hidden the importance

of sacred things.