the way it looks from my fencepost-perch.

It’s freeing up here,

looking right then left

at two groups who both

swear they’re right.

In a world of black and white,

I am dangerously beige,

white-knuckling my way

as I tow the line.

The sort that I gravitate to,

we tiptoe around polarity,

wobbling on our brown,

muddy, muddled, middle ground

until someone down below

is brought to their own tippy-toes.

I’ve learned that that’s how it starts:

the seed often is

wonder at the world

and the way it loves us all the same,

wonder that brings you

out into the blue open air

All of a sudden you're peeking over,

prodding at the word “possibility”

and questioning for the first time

what that all entails.

They’ll warn you with,

“the grass is always greener,”

but we will always encourage you with,

“The grass is still green over there.”

Take it from us, from our stubborn curiosity:

there is black, there is white,

but then there are the colours of our entire world,

should you choose to humble yourself

enough to notice them.

We sit, we invite you.

“Climb up.”

“Stay awhile.”

Our feet dangle and kick

Against the soft, tan wood of this fence.

Then we say with words that

come from the soft red flush of our cheeks

more than the hot words of orange, fiery

that, in a past life, came from our mouths,

“You can find rest with us here.”

Then again,

this is all just the way it looks

from my fencepost-perch.