In the cold blue shadow behind a shed,
among young ash and mulberry trees
standing in discarded tires, and next to
a roll of used and reused sheep wire
and a sheaf of rusty posts, I am alone
among the others who have stood here,
as they looked out over the snowy fields,
holding their breath against the stillness,
against our awareness of each other,
whole generations empty between us
like gaps between saplings, all of us
having come tracking through winter
to look for something to use to prop
up something else, or for a part
of a part, and not having found it,
standing both inside and outside of time,
becoming a piece of some great, rusty work
we seem to fit exactly.