Wouldn’t say I dislike change.
That’s one river I wouldn’t swim against,
unlike salmon without the nuisance of self-doubt.
Through a constant medium comes
banks burst in tests of character,
and languid seasons when the sun’s milky
heat thins that flow to simple streams
whose fords form false promise—but I rant;
water is life.
No, what I like most is
pillars still standing in place in face of wind that bites, decay;
walls that, like books, tell stories it must, and (especially) those it doesn’t have to;
beaten old doors, paint flaked, that still remember where they lead to, patient.
If you’ll let me define beauty: resilience.