Beneath the Rust

We have a shared love of the old -

something not so common in our culture, as we often try to get rid of things by 

throwing them away, 

blobbing on wrinkle cream, 

or getting shirts "Made in Indonesia" to look vintage 

instead of actually going vintage.

Time passing by can be beautiful; 

there is much to learn from the old days, 

from folks who've come before our modern "brilliance."

This poem is for my friend Janine, 

who shares a love for finding beauty in the restoration of things past, 

in the ways that bring new life to the present, 

and allow for a future to be freshly coloured by

- instead of forgetting - 

things of old.

Reuse, reduce, recycle kids ;)

- C

Beneath the Rust

There is
Something about the rust
         that speaks to the cycle of things.
Something about the wear
         and tear of old that shares a beauty
              with the eyes that catch a glimmer through the dust.
Something that winks and shimmers where the paint flakes
              and captivates...
                   and time takes
                        up space in the mind.
Something in the way that the rust
         holds loosely;
              letting go and
                   shedding its former life.
Something about the slivers -
         that just beg to be smoothed -
              that moves,
                   startles and smarts our outstretched touch;
                        slighting our senses with the chance to
                  shake the old from the old
                       and morph it,
                            letting it shine as a new creation...
                                 a piece that contains time.
Something about the rust
         that holds the stories of us
              who have come, 

gone, 

are, 

will be.

A door once used to cross a threshold
         turned to hold
              coffee cups, journals, and family dinners.
Windows which once showed us the world,
         now frame a soul’s view of it for our gaze to be changed by.
A chair where awkward dates and birthdays and nights gone late
         were witnessed by the weavings and the wood;
              reupholstered to stimulate new conversation in the fabric of life.
Pitchers for milk to make children strong,
         chipped with use from tiny fingers now grown strong,
              show off wild flowers for our eyes to drink up and let sink into our bones;

our soul's are getting strong.
Skirts into curtains
Skis into shelves
Skids into holders for mittens and scarves...

Something in the old that gives us the chance
         to see new -
              to create new -
                   to embrace new life
                        and the change that age
                             thrusts upon us.

Something in the rust
         that makes us choose to
                   waste or embrace;

Something
              that we can change
                   as we are changed
                        and rechange,
                   restored with new life
              as new life is brought to
         the broken, the dead,
    the once deemed ugly...

Something in the rust of old,
    in the turning of time,
         that makes us new.