Rebuilding
Here, the bricks we left behind,
red as blood after a long breath,
decay into a dull gray as death.
We still recall the beauty of old
buildings built to last, but always
another decides the day has come
to rebuild. I don’t blame them,
only notice how each board
replaced becomes unknown
in the city where I learned love
grows into the cracks of age
and up the walls we raise.
As, one by one, the beams, the bricks,
each element of where we called
home were changed out, how long
before it only appeared the same,
without even the ghost to haunt
the newness that remained?
What once was, no longer fits
into the pattern. Fresh paint
bled for a day, then dried.
I found the pile of dust and rubble,
pink like skin, a few blocks down,
a discarded past at the heart of town.
Remember the center divided
evenly into squares, yet each alone
in its patch of history, surrounded
with crumbling houses and stone?
No one told us they were fragile,
those stalwart mansions.
