Artwork
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Frame
Winter Fence I, Port Rexton, NL
Snow is falling, blanketing the open field that stretches beyond the broken frame of an old fence. An iron gate creaks in the wind, a lonely moan breaking the silence. Calling —for hands that once cobbled it together with wood, and wire, and rope. Calling —for the lives it once held close, protected. The fence leans now, weathered and rusted, too exhausted to stand straight. I stand here, watching the snow bury the past. Feeling the weight of time in the fence’s sagging lines. It speaks to me of frayed boundaries, fragility. Of peace, not acquiescence, nor surrender. Of lines that need no longer hold fast. A softening from within that comes with age. A stillness I’m still chasing through the falling snow —guarding nothing now.