There are those who do not give
a second thought to aging buildings.
They only see the flaws:
wrong essence, outmoded style,
decay, rust, and the wear and tear
of simply staying alive.
They cannot appreciate the original design
that speaks of the beauty of the bygone,
different materials, different construction;
it is an eyesore to them, an obstacle
to the shiny, new, impersonal thing that
they have ordered, next-day delivery.
It is abominable that mothers must die,
the whole art of unconditional love
having to be re-invented each time.
I love every crack in your walls,
every line that others see as fissures,
your closed windows stuck for years,
your aching bones that tell a story.
I am listening.
I have told many of this love,
but they do not believe in it.
Like literature, they dismiss it.
If it isn’t on television, it isn’t relatable.
All they want to do is tear you down
to build something else that
cannot weather the storms that come.
I stand outside the fence, teeth clenched,
hands fisted in helplessness.
Your stones come tumbling down,
the facade revealing the inner spaces
that I only glimpsed in dreams,
but I knew were so very there.
Many things happened here yet
slowly they disintegrate into dust.
I must tell someone how wonderful
Can they ever understand?