Splintered

Our wooden bench is old and splintered
Yours till the end yet assembled by me
Today sitting in your place, I wonder
Side on… did I ever know you?
Facing… do I trust this identity?

Birds sing as clouds shift the sky
Space flows away from all we see
And people who sat on this bench
Spent a lifetime as familiar strangers
Waiting for another day to speak

One thought on “Splintered

  1. I felt nostalgic reading “Splintered,” as it conjured up visions for me of the people who would have sat on this bench over the years. They were looking at the same view, but what would they have been thinking at the time? I feel the bench would have got withered and old as life changed around it. A year in the life of a garden bench, what would it have seen and heard?

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