Sturdy, knobby pale oaks.

Two columned women.

Soldiers, never marching never standing still.

Two white cans to stand on,

Thick matching meringues.

Stiff, middleaged women with unbending backs.

Stories with no end.

Tales without a start.

Two parchments that never unroll.

I stand tall upon them.

Rarely think of them.

Yet they are forgiving of my flaws.