Old Iron

Collected from the rejects
of those that wanted something newer,
something better,
old iron.

Discarded and left. Thrown away.
Deemed useless.
Trash to be hidden or hauled.
Piled high and left to rust,
much of it does just that,
oxidizing into oblivion or
swallowed by God’s green vines and left
for archeologists to wonder over.

At times, at the artist’s hands,
this abandoned becomes new,
recast in fires white hot
and poured into new molds,
the old iron becomes new again,
useful and perhaps, even
beautiful.

About this poem. 

Many of my poems have to do with restoration.

I’ve been tossed on the slag heap before, deemed useless, worse than useless. I know what it is like, I know how it feels, and I know what is possible.

I found my way back. Many don’t and I am tenderly aware of that. Grateful and determined to live the noble life of restoration while I still can.

Tom