The wooden fence stands tall slats
against the wind charging its barricade.
Blast after blast the fence holds;
blast after blast nails wiggle, wiggle
in their hammered tunnels
forging wider gaps blast after blast
until nails squeal in uprooting.
A slat mutinies with the wind,
and bangs its fellow soldiers
into horizontal surrender.
Wind blasts through
like a cannonball whistle,
and the wooden fence is a cemetery
of splintered crosses strewn
across the field of dandelions.