Old Brick
Oct 26 2022
The old brick
was crumbling at the edges
and imperfectly spaced.
The mortar was a light grey
and looked eternal,
like exposed rock
repeatedly washed by rain.
But beautiful,
a gradation of of hues
from warm pink to faded red,
worn
by years of weather
in the way that vintage jeans and old leather
show their age.
A softness
that makes you want to reach out and touch,
run an open hand
over it's fine smooth surface
until it's warm as you are.
After the demolition
I collected it
to build something new.
How refreshing
in a culture obsessed by youth
to find value in something so old
rescue something discarded.
Used brick
the passage of time has weathered
to a fine patina
of warmly textured pink.
A condemned building,
but lots still left in it.
And the elders
we sideline and ignore.
Who have aged gracefully, and long.
Who have accumulated wisdom
through painful experience
and hard-earned success.
Whom we'd be better off hearing
but too often dismiss,
disposed of
like brick no one wants
or would rather not be bothered with.
I guess the angle this poem takes was pretty obvious from the start. After all, you can’t reproduce the passage of time in something new. Still, this singular preoccupation with age in my poetry is starting to get embarrassing!
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