Knotty Pine

Knotty Pine

It’s been years since the last time I visited.
My uncle’s guitar reclines in his empty chair,
waiting in vain for his fingers to pick out notes
that for years rang off the knotty pine walls,
before becoming muffled by soft green carpet.
But his gnarled knuckles gave up years ago.
This was his favorite room in the house,
built to look exactly like the cabin up north
where he spent his childhood summers.
After he was left alone, he rarely used
the rest of the house. The room is cleaner now,
straightened up to allow strangers to roam
through while thinking about mortgages
and updates. It’s been years since I last
visited, and the room looks the same,
except for a deeper, more enduring silence.

Paul Scot August

Published in Bending Light Into Verse II by Jennifer Tomaloff


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