A Beautiful Survival

Do not be mistaken.
It is not peace.
It is not the idyllic scene with flowers
and stone walls,
a post card perfection,
something to aspire to,
a trip to make.

It is merely a beautiful survival,
a stubborn refusal to submit,
a refusal to crumble
though crumbling would bring with it relief,

At times you yearn for it. Desire it.
to simply fall and be done with it,
to join the ruins that surround you,
to cease the slow, day to day battle
against storms and erosion,
and let madness take it’s course.

But you do not.
You stand strong and still,
silent, or almost silent, in your suffering,
determined
to provide shelter
until the very end.

About this poem. 

I am not sure if this poem is about me. About my mother. Or about the ruins of old homes I see everywhere I go.

I am not sure it matters.

The picture was taken in Botetourt Country, Virginia. It’s an old mill converted, or at least partially converted, into a home.

Tom