Like old sepia photo
inviting eye to linger
does sepia of wood
invite admiring finger.
Eminently touchable
in smooth and rounded form,
from chocolate to butterscotch
toasted, glazed, warm.
Like mystery in the photo
the mystery in the wood
makes us stop and ponder
exactly as we should.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to Traders Point Creamery, Zionsville, IN.
Age, some say,
is just a number,
inconvenient,
contrived encumber.
I shake my head
and must dissent;
age is real,
the past is spent.
In shingles curled,
in chimneys blackened,
in wood wind-sanded,
in facia slackened,
time’s signature
is boldly written,
and we are similarly
smitten.
Our mortar to dust,
our boards to splinter,
through many a summer
and many a winter,
we too show
the outward signs
of life’s erosions,
droops, declines.
But as parts unjoin,
fade and slip
arises still
proud workmanship.
And so with us
of youth bereft:
who we are
is what is left.
With thanks to photographer Mary Jo Bassett
and Conner Prairie Living History Museum, Fishers, IN.
An inkwell, a nib, and a blotter
stand ready to do what they oughter
artifacts quaint
an iPad they ain’t
confounding grandson and granddaughter.
Thanks more to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Nowhere so abiding
an invitation
as here
where weathered wood
turns away
into realms of solitude.
Again thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Once upon a time
it all was green and yellow
brilliant, supple, showy
like my caterpillar fellow.
Now it’s tones of wood
brittle requiem
but chrysalis, seeds attest
death is just pro tem.
Is anyone going anywhere?
Is there a train, a bus?
Is there a ticket, pass, or fare,
an eye, a heart, a pulse?
If I wait despite my dread,
will I go where I should?
Or is my way as coldly dead
as the weathered wood?
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Oddments 