Work to be Done
The roofline is bowed.
The paint flakes off.
There is work to be done.
Still, somehow, it is scenic,
poignant enough to make your eye linger,
to make you wonder.
How old? What is stored inside?
And that yellow flowered shrub growing high at one end,
what is it? How long has it been there?
You snap a picture.
To remember. Not the building,
but the feeling it left you with.
The roofline is bowed.
The paint flakes off.
There is work to be done.
About this poem.
About old buildings. About life. About me.
There is work to be done.
Tom
PS – The picture was taken just down the road from my house in West Pawlet, Vermont.
