Later, a thick growth of hopbine will cover it over.

But for a time now it has the weathered color

Of dark lily pads pulled from the deepest water

In the deep evening light of summer.

At the top, though, the pickets are fresh-painted:

White, pointed little teeth of fire—

It seems strange that they have never frightened

The birds: once, a wild pigeon even perched there.

Many hands, touching the bare wooden handle,

Have smoothed its texture to a homely satin.

Sneaking up under the grip are spikes of nettle,

And yellow jasmine dangles its little lantern.