There is a patina to the table,
to the yellow on the walls,
on the chairs –
a slow thing that comes with time,
and age and wear,
a rare beauty, rich and fragile
About this poem.
I’ve refinished a lot of furniture in my day. I know how hard it is to save the patina while still refinishing and repairing the wood. There is an art to it, deciding what to fix, and what fix might destroy that fragile beauty that gives it life.
A lot like keeping a love vibrant. Sometimes, the imperfections ARE the beauty.