If I Were a Poet
I might compose something more eloquent about this old garden bench, but I'm not a poet. Nevertheless, my ineptitude with metaphorical phrases doesn't preclude appreciation of its character. Here it sits, the handiwork of a past craftsman, inclined among the colors of a garden. The patina of its youth is long gone, and man's oils and solvents have evaporated, enabling Nature's work to go on unimpeded. Its once-smooth and grained surface is now roughened and cracked and home to lichens that take nourishment from the more natural substrate while young green plants climb through its openings. The joints are losing their resolve and will someday be too weak for the bench to continue its "work" whereupon it will be destroyed and maybe replaced by something with less character. And like the fallen and unnoticed trees in a forest, the bench will become a part of the natural order. In the interim, it invites enjoyment for what is.
Loved the metaphors. Photograph too!
He said he wasn't a poet and then he were one. Nice shot Jack.
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