I came across a poem recently written by Wilson McDonald that spoke to my heart...
I love old things: streets of old cities, crowded with ghosts and banked with oranges, gay scarfs and shawls that flow like red water.
I love old abbeys with high, carved portals and dim, cool corners where tired hearts pray: I join them in the silence and repair my soul.
I love old inns where floors creak eerily and doors blow open on windless nights, where heavy curtains dance a slow waltz.
I love old trees that lift up their voices high above the grasses. They do not sing at the light wind's bidding: they chant alone to storms.
I love old china, knowing well the flavour of great, strong men and fair, sweet women lurks at the rim of each deep brown bowl.
I love old books frayed from the searching of truth-hungry fingers: their warm, soft vellum leads me up through sorrow like a dear friend's hand.
I love old men and old, dear women who keep red cheeks as the snows of winter keep the round red berry of the winter-green.
I love old things: weather-beaten, worn things, cracked, broken, torn things, the old sun, the old moon, the old earth's face, old wine in dim flagons, old ships and old wagons- old coins and old lace, rare old lace.
My hat is off to Wilson MacDonald- he's captured my soul with the dash of his pen! Happy Labor Day everyone- be safe and well!
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