Worn Pilings

 

For all their years

     they've marched

           silent to the sea,

A slender line

     of pilings,

            wave-washed,

Worn to stubs,

     mere stepping stones

            for the hungry gulls.

 

But...still...

      they hold

            their line of march;

Being all they know

       of the weary

             way of things...

Never thinking

       to my seeing eye

              the very form of them,

Smooth roundness

       born of age

               and endless wear,

Has made them

       nothing less

               than beautiful. 

 

 

 

 

 

Jo Anzalone  6-12-2007

 

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