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In gray, dreary months— wood grain softens; posts loosen in standing puddles. Furrowed by the yellow sun— once firm, now brittle— the fence leans again after seasonal winds. I wedge in stakes, brace sagging sections— too warped to set straight, like ligaments of the knee. “It’s time for a new fence,’” I proclaim. “Nah,” my neighbor shrugs, “we can take the wobble out.” He drives in heavy nails, reattaches dog-eared pickets; hammer taps boards, for the dull and the hollow. We mend aging joints together, patch split planks. Set it right for a while— till the wind comes again. The life of weathered wood is reminder to us both. We do what we’re meant to do— for just a while longer.                     —•0•—
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Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 10:52 PM UTC
Weathered Wood
In gray, dreary months— wood grain softens; posts loosen in standing puddles. Furrowed by the yellow sun— once firm, now brittle— the fence leans again after seasonal winds. I wedge in stakes, brace sagging sections— too warped to set straight, like ligaments of the knee. “It’s time for a new fence,’” I proclaim. “Nah,” my neighbor shrugs, “we can take the wobble out.” He drives in heavy nails, reattaches dog-eared pickets; hammer taps boards, for the dull and the hollow. We mend aging joints together, patch split planks. Set it right for a while— till the wind comes again. The life of weathered wood is reminder to us both. We do what we’re meant to do— for just a while longer.                     —•0•—
My neighbor inspected our falling-down fence for repairs. I viewed it as unstoppable entropy.
#weatheredwood#davidanthonycarrillo#aging#acceptingailments
david-anthony-carrillo
Written by
david-anthony-carrillo
Benicia, CA
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 10:52 PM UTC
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