Gothic, monolithic, and gaunt - the stately old sandstone buildings of the Keweenaw stand resolute against spring's thaw, summer's sun, autumn's rain, and winter's chill. Harsh and violent, soft and deadly the elements seek to etch away the facade of each building - cracking ancient paint, chipping stone, splitting the strongest wood by action of wind and water. Stained stone joined to advanced craquelure and laced with lichen's fairy dance, the weathered and unbeaten faces of our buildings endure the scrutiny of passing travelers - faces at once handsome and austere, distinguished with just a touch of white...
Could they speak, what might they tell us of their fear, their future, and their fate?
Touch of Frost
My bones are tough as iron and hard as stone,
And I have weathered many winter gales
Both fierce and adamant; I stand alone
As chronicler of lonely winter tales.
Though sun and ice and rain my stone may etch,
And cause my very skin to flake away -
As sun and dark contract my bones, and stretch
My joints until they leave me ashen gray;
Though spring's upheavals shake me to my roots,
And I get burned by summer's fiery ball -
The autumn's windy hands my treasure loots,
And winter is the cruelest time of all:
Allergic to the faintest touch of frost,
I quietly endure, and count the cost...