Still Standing

The logs are dry,
hand sawn sixty plus years ago,
and left to weather ever since.

Built the year before you were born,
its age reminds you of your own,
rough skin, tired bones, the subject of innumerable storms

and still standing.

About this poem

The picture was taken last fall at a mill pond back in the woods at the family farm. My father and grandfather built the cabin the year before I was born.

Tom