Rotted Boards

A poem about the dregs of time

Rotted boards
dry and worn
bake in the midday sun.
Summer's come, nearly gone
the wood, foundation of all
has taken too much water.
Swollen, flaking,
cracked and creaking
beneath the weight of the wind.
Back and forth these buried boards,
foundation of all that's been,
creak and groan.
Weak, they gently drop bits of splinters
shavings of wood upon the ground as autumn grows close.
Yet they do not crumble,
do not drop.
They will stand tall until winters last snowflake falls.