It is slow work, this moving from here to there.
Somehow I was not made for speed, for breakthroughs.
For me, it seems, life is not a thing of revelations, but a thing of increments.
It is frustrating. I will not lie. Others take wild leaps,
fly on trapezes I miss with every jump, somehow
knowing without knowing. comfortable without their nets.
I judge far less, far more slowly than the world around me,
the victim of a generation of bad leaps and broken bones and hearts,
mine not least among them.
I am often wrong. This is my lesson and I have learned it well.
There are no nets and I break easily.
Restoration comes slow.
Some things never heal. They are instead rebuilt. Something new
built on the rubble. Wonderful perhaps, or perhaps not, but new,
the ruins become museum pieces, if they are fortunate.
I am done building museums. I am done with restorations.
I will build anew. I will become unafraid of heights,
building them one stone at a time. less afraid of falling,
more sure of the foundations.
About this poem
I am not what I was. But brokenness is not all bad.
Give it time.