“Good fences make good neighbors,” / wrote that famous old codger / whose farm produced little more than poesy.
What did that grandiloquent gomer know — / with his square head — / and the little horse he rode in on, too?
We need to build some bridges, / is what he should have said, / to get us together or away from one another.
Mending fences isn’t very sexy, / not like building a big ballroom / or a supersized arch that signifies nothing.
But a good bridge is everything — / posts planted firmly in the earth, / holding high a strip of possibility / way, way up in the everlasting sky.