I'm living in a brick house for the first time in my life. I like it just fine. Brick houses always look appealing from the street because you don't see peeling paint, and bricks pretty much stay bricks: they hold their shape and color. I've heard that brick houses don't fare too well in earthquakes, but I don't know that for a fact.
My father, a stone mason, loathed bricks. Basically, he refused to lay them. I think the process was simply too boring for him, and although he would have been furious if someone had referred to him as an "artist," he liked the fact that no two rock walls or fireplaces looked the same. He liked composing the things.
We've always bought highly used homes--a couple were even Victorians houses, ancient by American standards. No matter how much the previous occupant cleans up outside, there always seem to be things of interest (but of no or little use) left behind, such as an oddly shaped piece of metal, a broken chair, or just one brick. The just one brick is the topic of this poem.
Brick
A brick never set
into wall or walkway
seems all rectangular
for nothing, red out
of embarrassment or alarm:
Brick emergency! I need
to be part of something,
mortared into solidarity!
The isolated brick gives
the impression of being aware
of its situation, although
that is impossible.
What will happen?
Weather will get to it.
Or it will break. Anyway
it’ll return to soil, finish
the trip from clay to mold
to kiln to being brick to dirt.
No comments:
Post a Comment