The rubble is not what it seems.
Never mind the fallen beams,
the torn floorboards and shards of walls.
Never mind the shattered doors
and the broken ductwork, grey and forlorn.
Still, it is not what it seems,
not a fallen angel or a lost soul of wood and steel,
not a failure of a building,
so worn and tired that it is no longer worth saving.
Surely, not a tragedy, despite all your memories
of its former glory.
It is a clearing way
for a new beginning,
new walls built on old,
the start, always the start,
by a God of second chances
About this poem
A poem from experience. About buildings. About people sometimes. About me once.
The picture was taken in Whitehall, NY.
Be well. Travel wisely,