I like the things that only come through years of constant wear. Like long hair,
like shredded jeans, or a thin sweater.
Cuts in a butcher block, ripped leather boots, faded incandescent bulbs, and oiled axe handles.
I like fresh air.
Some folks find beauty in modern art, but I find it in the engine of an old fishing boat, in the concave step of an old stone stairwell.
I find beauty in a tired type-writer ribbon: oiled felt, chipped edges.
I find beauty in dull pocket knives. The tired office desk, a stained rake.
I like the rocking chairs with discolored wrists, the torn cardboard edges of board games. I like scrapes in old wood floors; hard water stained shower curtains.
I like the soot on a concrete hearth. The water and ink stained silk screen.
I see history in an empty mascara cylinder; toilet paper cores in a trash can.
Fan blades covered in dust.
I like the rain stained vinyl siding of a mid century house, I like the worn tires of a tractor.
I wonder how many years it takes to fill the ceiling of a small bar with dollar bills. I like the sweat stained steering wheels, I like the salty passenger side floor mats.
I like the dew between two panes of glass- I like the over grown garden of your past.