Old Wood

Everywhere you see paint,
flaking, falling off, worn
by time and weather,

and underneath, raw wood,
strong for a time,
but only for so long before rot sets in.

It does not have to be.
Old wood, well taken care of
can live forever,
not unlike love.

About this poem

This poem was going to be about something else entirely, but in the background of my mind I have been thinking about love, and how parts of me still love like a teenager, a bit unseemly for a grown up, and this poem showed up instead.

The picture was taken at Asbury Park, NJ.

Tom