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Petrified Wood

By John I. Blair

For as long as I recall
Iíve had a chunk of stony wood
Reclining on my windowsill.

It has the tortured look
Of flesh thatís seen
Heat, cold, damp, rot,

Yet it stays the same,
As hard as any boulder,
Older than the hills.

I can detect the layers
Of the cycling years,
See scars left by insects

Or what moved and ate
In that hateless time.
But unlike living wood

This survivor stays cool,
Perfect in its imperfection,
Past tears, past giving.

©2004 John I. Blair  

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