Old Paint
You can see the wind
on the rough clapboard,
see how it has slowly stripped
the paint,
not in a season or a year,
but over time,
over years of quiet wear,
leaving only the grey skeleton,
now raw and exposed,
dying faster now with each season,
each new wind cutting
like harsh words on a tender heart.
About this poem
Some of my poems are obscure, I know. This one isn’t. I’ll let it speak for itself. The picture was taken down the road a bit, just beyond the town of West Pawlet, VT.
Tom
Quarry House 
Lovely scene, nicely framed. Sometimes the most obvious things are obscure until you squint down. The everyday can be the hardest to see. Have a good day Tom! Thanks for sharing.