Through the glass I see old red brick, color fading,
Through the glass I see old red brick, color fading, with the look and feel of dried blood, bringing forth a memory not mine of a time before I was born. The birth of Brooklyn. The faded brick draws attention to the tree before it, bright green growth, so new, ever changing.
PS: the magic page that will always jump you to the latest poem is "http://www.saintannsny.org/depart/computer/poems.html"