Rise

The cables are thick, rusted
and oh so strong, once used
to haul huge blocks of stone
up the quarry walls to waiting trucks

to be carried away, cut
and made into beautiful slabs
that live today on the sides of buildings,
along walkways and gardens,

as shingles on the rooftops of houses
in your own town, and across the state.
It is hard to imagine the cables broken.
They are over an inch thick and even now,

decades after the were left here on quarry floor,
they exude strength, sure in their ability
to bind the heavy slate slabs, and yet
here they lie, crusted, useless, mere fragments, on the ground.

There is hope in that for me.
A reminder that the bindings of our hearts and souls,
the twisted cables we create ourselves,
so strong and so sure

can be cast aside,
that they need not bind us any longer,
and hold us captive, that
we can break free, and rise,

ever rise,
becoming the sky,
the horizon,
ourselves.

About this poem

The picture was taken in the quarry across from my house, where I often walk. I’ve been mulling a poem around in my head for it for days now. And right on cue, on a Sunday morning, like a gift from a loving God, the poem arrived.

Have a blessed Sunday, my dear friends and readers

Tom