How green is the grass on the plain
Look at the fence in the brush so dense
Rusting with the coming of each Spring rain.
How many of us are like that fence,
decaying every year?
We think we are so very modern,
when in fact we fear,
And wish that we could be refreshed
by the rain so dear.
Do we long to be the brush,
or do we love the life of the fence,
living a dying lie?
Poem originally composed by me on September 20, 1988