Unearthed by manual labour, fences began
With lines of farmland stones, phalanx of
Heavy granite rocks, wrested from ancestral
Resting places by strong backs and calloused
Hands, reshaping open land from Maine
Wilderness, plowed fields slowly attained.
Begrudgingly, stones found new purpose,
Rocky coursing lineage, fathers, sons, and
Daughters, field defining, deterring sheep
And cattle from wandering into growing
Crops, tasseling corn, wheat rhythmically
Wind-waving until harvested in early fall.
Thus were my fond childhood memories,
Stones moved and placed by hand, each
Intimately interlocked, settling into rich
Earth, fence-lines and bloodlines deeply
Rooted in our family heritage, thriving
Maine farmsteads across this rolling land.
Years later, stone fences speak still to my
Heart, silent witnesses of farming struggles,
Growing seasons oft too short, cold winters
Never-ending. As Mainers, we have persevered,
Our will like stoic granite, love and stone-
Hearth fires sunshine-warm on hot July days.