Parts Not Seen

Frozen by rust and time,
harder than stone,
the engine is a relic,
visible, still perfect
but underneath it is dead.

At least today.
but as you work,
slowly breaking the rust
and discovering the fine steel underneath
you slowly become less art,
more motor, more something
alive with power, ready
to roar, ready
to move

past this place of dry bones
to unknown places,
exotic simply for their mystery.

But first there is this:
Work
that seems to go nowhere,
more destruction
than restoration,
the painful pulling apart
and rebuilding
of  parts not seen.

About this poem

There is always work being done, under the surface and often invisible. And what that work is determines whether we end up frozen and dead, or alive and growing.

Tom