Gates

And the farmer's eleventh commandment?
"Thou shall shut the gate!"
The horses are in the lane,
So two gates more than we're used.
The front seat, the most coveted,
Has suddenly become less desirable.
Both gates swing one way.
Curses fly when you stop too close,
To open or close them.
In the murky, misty night,
You fumble around, feeling for the catch,
Stumbling on the uneven darkness.
Arriving home with expectations of domicile comfort,
You are blasted from your pleasant stupor,
By a snow infused gale.
Warm hands meet cold steel.
House shoes meet muddy puddle.
Pony spies the greener side,
With the car, you block their attempts.
"Damn, too close again."