Petrified Wood
By
John I. Blair
For as long as I recall
I’ve had a chunk of stony wood
Reclining on my windowsill.
It has the tortured look
Of flesh that’s 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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