Poem: The Stubborn Belief

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.


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