The Joy of Restoration
A wasted wall, plaster fallen,
the lathe exposed.
You let your fingers slide across
the roughness, feeling it deep in your heart.
This is what happens once you learn
the art of restoration:
broken things become something new,
less about what is not there
than what could be.
About this poem
About things. About people. About ourselves. Nothing ever has one layer with me, as much as I sometimes wish otherwise.
PS: The picture was taken at The Mount, Edith Wharton’s house. Most of it is beautifully restored, but one room has been left raw, to show you what the house was restored from. I find it the most inspirational room in the house.