Finding the Slats

It seems every home I have ever lived in
was made the old way. Horsehair plaster.
Ceader slats. Fragile with age. Easily broken.
At times torn away. Work to be done.

I was not trained to the work
and like so many things I have lived
I simply began, empty headed, convinced
I could learn, could figure it out,

this repairing of the broken, somehow in love
with the less than pristine. Sometimes starting
with some demolition, trying to find where
the solid bits began, and building out from there.

It is slow work, but easier than you think.
More a matter of paying attention, listening
to the wood, to the paster as it is laid
on itself, as long as there are slats,

You can make it new again, yes, you can tell
the old from the new. Inevitably, the texture is different,
But then so is your own, as you have found yourself transported
from one life to another.

And so, you work on whatever comes your way.
Walls. People. Love. Brokeness. Finding the slats.
Mixing the plaster a bit thicker than you think it needs,
and you are surprisingly right, again and again.

About this poem

About plaster and old homes. About people. About love. About my own journey. Mostly true, with a few additions to make it more true.

The photograph was taken at The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home in the Berkshires of Massachusetts.

Tom,