From her kitchen window
the fence is perfect white
dappled with afternoon light
by the yard's border
nasturtium and arrowhead vine
entwine the posts.
Each spring a man comes
to mend and paint
and patiently patch
the ravage of winter.
Today, she contains the urge
to fly out the door
down the steps
and slide
ever gracefully
across the grass
to the shed.
Pick an axe there
and set upon the picket
with all her passion
spitting chips and splinters
down a path
to the woods beyond.