The plaster, once smooth and finished, has worn away.
The lathe is exposed. Raw strips of cypress
strap the wall.
Somehow, it holds together.
Somehow, it has its own beauty,
a fragile one, closer to death
than it ought to be.
This is you. Living halfway
between restoration and ruin,
a beautiful, fragile thing.
Those who visit are unsure
whether the wall is a statement,
a reason for admiration or concern.
They say nothing. But they look.
There is no statement here.
No artistic declaration.
It is simply where you live,
in this place of constant repair,
content, none the less.
About this poem.
I write a joyful poem, people rejoice with me. I write a broken poem, people worry. No need. It is life and like all of us, I live in it. It’s a beautiful thing. Even broken.