Beautiful Ruins

It’s nearly gone, drained slowly,
a long litany of “hail well met” and
the lies of “all is well.”,

Weeks, months, years
of struggle, of putting your struggle
on display like fine art

left in the rain,
where storms and sun
create the perfect patina,

something the world passing by sees
yet doesn’t see, a vague image of decay
on the periphery,

it’s falling apart so slow,
it seems to be part of the landscape,
eternal rot, a gorgeous ruin

waiting for salvation or collapse,
for someone, anyone, to see the beauty
of the bones

and care enough to stop
and take it in, to see what is,
what can be, that

every ruin that still stands
has the soul of a temple,
waiting to rise again.

About this Poem

All around her, here in Vermont and back in Virginia, I seem to take notice of old houses and buildings that are slowly, over years and decades, falling into ruin. Like many of us, I suppose, I notice them, and while day to day I don’t note their decline, over time, I see it. But except for a couple of houses I have been privileged to live in and restore, I’ve done nothing to save them.

I think the same thing happens with people. We see their decline, and we tisk, tisk over them, but rarely reach out to help them stave off their struggle and become what they are possible of becoming. I’ve lived on both sides of that equation, so perhaps I am more sensitive to it than most, not just the decline and struggle, but the amazing possibility of even the most worn ruins.

The picture was taken in the attic of Rupert Methodist Church in Rupert, Vermont.

Tom