Picket Replacement

The new wood, raw and pale,

a shocking bright line

against the old gray planks.

My neighbor, a focused frown,

drove the nail home,

a dull thud in the morning quiet.

He pulled out the old one,

splintered and soft with rot,

a dark hole left behind.

I watched from my window,

how easily things break,

how much work it takes to mend,

and how even mended,

it’s never quite the same.

Always a scar,

always a new piece

that doesn't quite match

the weathered truth beside it.