Cast Iron

Dark. Black with forging. It hangs on the wall,
stark against the whitewashed walls,
waiting for its moment to become useful.
Strong and silent; domestic and yet somehow
still powerful; it radiates history and hope
and the immortality of good work,
well cared for.

About this poem

This past year, both my own experience with cancer and having lost or nearly lost family and friends to Covid, leaves me too often thinking of the impermanence of life, and what we leave behind, or don’t. And the strangest things trigger those thoughts. Like cast iron. Cared for, it lives and serves forever. Neglected, it quickly rusts and is thrown away. Just like people.

I think about the weirdest things sometimes. Take care of the ones you love.

Tom