The bricks tumble down the creek bed,
remnants of floods and storms,
all that is left of a bridge well built
and constructed to last.
But abuse and time and neglect
will destroy the strongest of structures,
and all that remains is the rubble.
Nothing worth saving stands.
For the rubble had no meaning or value.
Not any longer. It is history,
and whatever you build will be something else,
more than a restoration,
it is your opportunity to become better, stronger,
and as tempting as it is to walk away
and leave the damage for archaeologists
and historians who have their own agenda,
you choose to build again,
to pile the broken bits and pieces
and like a sculptor create anew,
something worth marveling at,
where the flaws of the shattered foundations
startle those who saw the results of the flood.
No one else will know the miracle,
except those that saw you shattered.
No one else will know that the masterpiece that stands before them
is more of a miracle than they imagine.
They don’t need to know. You know
and that is enough. You know
that you are a creature built less of bricks, foundation and history
than persistence and tears,
that it is your imagination and foolishness
that rebuilds the most broken of things,
and will again, for once you have risen again, you know
that you can rise again, you become, suddenly,
About this poem
I think often it is the survivors that appreciate life most. Not the bitter ones, but the other kind, the ones that found joy and love and their own personal power again. The ones whose voices rise about the chorus in thanksgiving.
The picture is of the remains of a culvert that broke down as a result of overuse (Big heavy machines that the bridge was not made to handle) and floods. A bad combination whether we are talking bridges or life.