Through the Fence
Through the Fence
There’s a hole in the fence—
not the kind meant for peeking,
but the kind time makes
when it’s not paying attention.
I lean close and see
a red and yellow car
resting beside a blue rocking horse,
the sort of kingdom
that ruled the backyard
of someone’s childhood.
For a moment I think,
if I just angled my shoulder,
sucked in a bit,
I might fit through—
join the play of plastic toys,
drive that tiny car
in triumphant loops
around the dandelions.
But I don’t,
and I won’t.
Instead, I stay here,
on this side of the fence,
the adult side,
the reasonable side—
remembering how it felt
to believe that a crack,
a keyhole, a crooked opening
was invitation enough.
And I wonder
if the toys are waiting for me,
or if they already know—
that I am too big
for the hole now,
too cautious
for wonder’s small door.