The Beauty of Raw Wood

Mostly, the paint has worn off.
Storms. Sun. Time.
Benign neglect. More time.
And what is left is the raw wood,
More fragile perhaps,
but also, more honest.

About this poem

A poem about wood. About wear and tear. About aging and how we become more ourselves as we age. Poetry is never about one thing. One of those poems that started long and ended up short.

The picture was taken at a nearby barn.

Tom