Poem: Eight Years

the gardens of Troy 2

Eight Years

It is early in the morning.
The sun, broken by clouds, rises over the quarry.
Through the open window, you can still smell
the grass, fresh cut the day before.
Birds are singing, a mix of melody and raucous rap,
unabashed and anything but harmonious,
their joy making up for the lack of musicality.

Eight years.
That is how long you have been here
in this corner of the world so foreign to you
a decade ago.

Eight years of healing.
Eight years of gazing at mirrors,
chipping away at the stone you had become,
more archeology than art.
Michelangelo’s angel, without the beauty,
the heavenly cleverly disguised
in a stone-clad facade.

It is hard work, restoration,
harder to reclaim the beauty than to toss it aside
and begin a new.
There are decisions to be made,
admissions that some flaws cannot be erased,
that scratches and scalloped out sores
are not healable,
They are instead,
part of the beauty.

You breathe in the grassy air.
Tears, allergy caused perhaps,
or caused by the dust of re-creation,
slide down your cheek.

Eight years.
Lost years that had you not become stone clad,
your heart dead from overuse,
you might have spent otherwise, growing
like some corporate chart, ever upwards.

But that is not the way of journeys.
They rise. They fall. You get lost.
You get found,
or you do not.

The tears dry.
You can feel their crustiness on your cheek.
You can feel the sun as it rises finally
over the mountain of grey slate.
It is a good day.
You are alive.
Fully.
Finally.

Eight years
well spent.

About this poem

It’s been eight years since I moved to Vermont.

Tom

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