Restoration

There is a place in the process
when you have sanded and stripped just enough,
the old shellac pulled off, littering the floor
with dust and flakes, the raw wood exposed,
hopefully leaving enough of the patina
that you do not lose the essence of the piece,
ready at last for the new stain,
carefully blending it with the old,
a slow process if done right,
applied lightly, in layers,
one thin coat after another,
all of it, the old, the new, becoming one.
if not perfect, at last repaired, renewed
and freshly beautiful.

About this poem.

About furniture. About ourselves. About reclaiming our broken faith. About myself. Poetry is never about one thing.

The photograph is of a table that was my wife’s before we were married, that I refinished.

Tom