An aged wooden gate stands still, through countless days and

nights. The hinges rusted over, crystalized onto the gate

that withstood varied types of weather. The jagged edges

of the rough lumber, splintered, while piercing the ground

in the same spot since, well I can’t just quite remember.

My grandpa once told me how his cattle grazed this land.

How he got water from the same well, day after day.

How he once had a fence that stretched all around. How he built

it himself. So when the time came to expand, he wanted to

keep just one thing. This Gate marks the start,

as our land keeps expanding.

This gate doesn't do much, never has and never will.

Never has kept anything out and never keeps anything in.

It still stands though, looking onto the foreign landscape

that keeps changing with time. Trees colored vibrant green,

with the crops blooming in the daytime sun. So the gate

stands still, for another day and another night.