If I were a wall I’d be a red brick one.

The type of red that weather and time has melted into grey.

Pleading still though to be noticed.

Like confessions of the disillusioned.

A greyish, pleading, red brick wall.


And if I were a red brick wall I’d be covered with kudzu.

Not enough to overpower, but enough to draw a fight.

Climbing up and out and over and down.

Like the laying on of hands.

A praying, pleading, kudzu-covered, greyish red brick wall.


And if I were covered with kudzu I’d be home to evening’s song.

An orchestra of insects.

A thousand little bug quartets in glassy harmony.

Like a choir of children in white, lace dresses and tiny khaki pants.

A praying, pleading, glory-singing, greyish red brick wall.


And underneath the kudzu I’d be naked and revealed.

Cracks stretching through the mortar.

Splitting and swirling and slicing and scared.

Like a map that leads to yesterday.

A helpless, pleading, kudzu-clothed, greyish red brick wall.


A praying, pleading, glory-singing, broken red brick wall.


That is, if I were a wall.


One thought on “7.1.2012

  1. You have a beautiful soul. Your writing reminds me of that each time I read it. I praise God for his work in you and that leads me then to praise him for his work in me.

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