The Stubborn Belief
In Venice, the plaster often falls into the canals,
exposing the ancient brick below, leaving
an artistic mix of color and mortar,
white and crumbling. A beautiful collage
of old and new. Tourists take pictures.
Post cards are sold. Memories are made
of this slow unraveling.
You look in the mirror. A rare event.
You see the wrinkles, the laugh lines
of the past decade finally overcoming
the frowns of pan of the decade before.
Still, it is a lined face, worn,
exhibiting its age when the light is just so,
exhibiting its vigor when the light comes
from a new angle and the eyes sparkle.
Hardly a ruin. Hardly art, a walking memory
of the slow unraveling of a life,
exposing the mortar below, the faith,
the stubborn belief in love.
About this poem
I have said it before. Writing is like therapy. You start here, and you find yourself somewhere completely different when you are done.
The picture was taken in Venice. I am running low on pictures from Venice. It’s time to go again.