I can see a fence
from my vantage point
in class.
Its ninety-degree angles
and waist-high
wrought irons
please me in their sootiness.
This fence walls in
a clawing tree,
naked,
brick-leaves flattened
and half-skiffed
by drifted snow.
Nothing is walled in,
tree and leaves
depend on fence for nothing;
even newspapers
spin off to some other temporary
taken by the wind.
I am walled out,
but it is class
that keeps me captive.
(and the cold: I desire walls in winter)
That fence holds
not even heat.
It is just a fence, Frost.
A frosted fence,
and it pleases
me.
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