Ode to the old

There is a certain beach

In the North Wild West,

All over scattered

With white old wood...

Maybe Lewis and Clark

Set foot on it

Before they sunk 

Into gloom-- if they

Would have known... 


The old withered wood--

Bones of the trees,

Me touching-- they

Are no longer

Needle stabbers,

But smooth as skin;

Disheveled no longer

But well combed;

No longer dark

But white as sand...


Here enduring,

Wood can take winds

And waves of the sea,

Salt and sound...

What a pleasure it is

To get so close

As to touch skin--

The skin of time!

Music its smoothness...


So, I like old--

Old wood,

Old words,

Old friends,

Old love...

They are smooth

As the skin of time...

Hurt you not,

Touch you only,

Deep...

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