Fixing a window
Peeling back time,the putty knife lays the
dark wood bare.
Ninety years old,
fashioned by a man
long dead and gone.
The wood is smooth
on the face exposed,
shining golden luster.
The old glass cracks,
awakened from it's sleep,
shards fly to the floor.
White putty, soft like dough
coaxed into the frame,
metal points secure the pane.
Years from now
if this window cracks
will anyone know ?
Will anyone come
with knife and time
to make it whole ?
Will this house stand
still on this hill
among these tall trees ?
Will anyone remember us,
shards on the floor
long dead and gone ?
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