Worn brick walls soaked in human toil
Dust red, smoky smell, rough corners worn smooth
Touched by a hundred hands,
Solid.
The world in sections motared together.

Variance slight in shade and texture,
A wall of humanity
Crumbling slowly with age
Turning to dust
Unmoving yet changing every day.

Covered and decorated to hide the separate parts
Trying to create a unanimous whole.
Resisting the taloned hands
Scraping at its surface to tear down,
Retaining scant traces of trial.

"Touch me," it cries
Taunting in its power.
If one could barehanded separate
The power would shift,
But it refuses to let the colors fall alone.

Copyright © 1997 wendi loomis The Seasons Change