The fence is left to morning glories, br The heft of their heaping vines - br Tendrils and leaves, br Flowers and seeds - br Each not the weight of a feather br But together they sag br The rusting chicken wire br On the four nails br Holding it to birch posts. br br The fence is left to morning glories, br The morning is left to write itself, br And the glory is left to God.