The break never begins with noise,
but beneath buckled paint
behind the calendar we stuck
in hopes of growing unto faith
on walls, for blessed are the
fools, drunk on anticipation
of belief.
When it went, we learned to walk
around it, tremors disguised
as ordinary time, Baldwin’s history
sitting in the room until someone
notices the uninvited guest.
No siren sounds, no one is named.
Gravities are rearranged this way.
Pisa’s tower looked just fine
at ribbon-cutting time.
How easy it is, to mistake the wreck
for aftermath, never beginning.
Survivors find the hairline crack
and make a home in the months
before the flood runs.
Blessed the believers who
never
chart the damage, who lean in to
what’s left standing, call it home.
Superb piece, Stacey. The cracks do appear deep, deep below the surface, only to be seen by others too late. And what is there for them to do anyway?
How we try to paper over everything. The key, perhaps, is to recognise the first signs and learn to embrace them as our frailties are what makes us.
Well said, Chris. Thank you, friend : )
🙂
Relatable on many levels for me, Stacey. This kitsugi we practice at times can be an exhausting exercise.
Thank you, Michael.
An apt poem for these times we are living through …to call what’s left standing: home, even though that bit of possibility is always in flux. To see this world and ourselves as change-in-motion, the chaos of life, is quite the leveler, a leveler which will never be leveled.
I love how you put that, sister. Deep bow. Thank you.
who lean in to
what’s left standing, call it home
Thank you. You always find the right place to touch. And sometimes you smash it.
Kat, thank you so much for this note, friend. Love and light to you.