Art by Pepin Josef Turla

Before the morning heat settles into the dust,
fingers pull tape and strain against wire,
shaping raw frames out of patience and trust,
built on a quiet, shared kind of fire.
We measure the space not in meters or feet,
but in laughter that leaks through the mid-afternoon haze,
in the sudden, heavy rain that cools down the street,
and the rhythm of footsteps filling the maze.
Decades of history, folded and kept
in the calloused palms of those standing nearby—
for every storm that swept past while we slept,
we built something stronger under this sky.
When the last banner folds and the dust settle in,
leaving quiet to rest on the sun-weary stone—
does the beauty belong to where we have been,
or the strength in the hands that we’ve held as our own?

Piece by William Barlow