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Ode To the Wing Stands

December 21, 2012


Done.  Lonely.  Mute.  There you stand, proud, tall and strong.  Your lifes burden finally relieved with the final resonant clunk of the last squeezed rivet.  Though Douglas Firs before you have had nobler livlihoods, none before has so executed their charge with your poise and silent grace.  Metal’s braggadocio of its strength is often tiresome to bear, but your wooden fortitude and charm were more than a match.  Never will those wings remember that it was wood that made them come to life.  Your job complete it is time to rest.  The only sign of your existence, holes in the ceiling that spackle will hide but never truly fill.  Dried and impossible to remove adhesive from the floor that I will trip over each time tread that path.  Your body will lie in state stretched across ceremonial attic joists, there to slumber dreaming of what the future may hold secure in the knowledge that wood is not safe to burn in a gas fireplace.

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