I love bricks. They add warmth wherever they happened to be used.
Here, on the wall of this building on South Meridian Street,
they are old. They've seen the passing of years, of generations
of shops and people wandering the streets.
Their varegated color speaks of the clay from which
they were formed, the hands that made them
a hundred years ago and more. So many are stacked,
doing their job but needing to have their mortar cleaned,
repaired, and replaced. They are blue and red,
orange and brown, and running one's hand over their
surface brings one into contact with history,
in a way no thin coat of stucco, spread over
styrofoam, can ever do.