Things That Last (1)

This roll top desk was built by hand,
slowly, never hurried, allowed
to find the right woods, allowed
to carefully cut and fit each oak slat
until, in it’s own time, it was finished.

The finish too was unhurried,
slow thin coat after slow thin coat
each drying for days, not hours, each
laid surely and the dry layer before it.

A hundred years old, and at times neglected,
every part still works, smooth and refined.
When you dust off the oak, it glows in the sun,
the patina rich and deep, a think of beauty.

That is how you create things that last. Slowly.
With patience, allowing them to find their own way,
to find their fit and and finish and to settle with it
like lovers talking deep, deep into the night.

Things That Last (2)

This roll top desk was built by hand,
slowly, never hurried, allowed
to find the right woods, allowed
to carefully cut and fit each oak slat
until, in it’s own time, it was finished.

The finish too was unhurried,
slow thin coat after slow thin coat
each drying for days, not hours, each
laid surely and the dry layer before it.

It is hard to imagine beauty now,
as it stands lopsided from the loss of one foot,
it’s finish dulled by neglect and sun and weather,
decades in a barn, used more by mice and barn cats

than people. A tool worked hard, never oiled,
never protected, until it has come to this,
good for little more than kindling.

That is the power of neglect,
to slowly destroy the beauty of things meant to last,
and leave only ruins, blaming perhaps faulty workmanship

instead of the truth of slow abuse
that is stronger than beauty can endure.

About this poem

The things that last – relationships, faith, good work, love –  take time. Slow work. It’s hard sometime in the internet age, where everything’s a cute and quick blurb, to give these things the time they need. But oh, it’s worth it. It’s so worth it.

Likewise the maintenance of those things is hard. Not glamorous. Often not noticed. But essential. If we want things that last.

Tom