The Wooden Board

Dark, chocolate brown to chestnut,

wood changes, stains.

Patterns swirl like hurricanes unchallenged;

holes form, splinters flake off every corner.

Sanding is temporary, shaving layers,

inching further toward the depths.

 

Someday there will be nothing left to strip.

 

What remains has character,

weak, brittle, slightly rotten,

yet essence of the wood stays;

roots firmly smashed in the middle,

never to feel brush of air or warmth of sun.

 

Still it is there,

providing the core that all else builds around,

for that is where true value is found.

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