There is No Magic
The factory lies abandoned, just enough left
you can understand the making,
the how it was done.
Gears, pullies, long belts and the machinery
seems almost still capable.
You can almost hear the sound of its prime,
see the dust flying, the creak of metal against metal,
In the distance, you can hear the water wheel,
still turning, a few flaps broken, the water sound
interrupted. But there is no connection any longer.
It is empty, abandoned,
no longer considered worth the effort.
You can relate.
You have suffered the same abandonment,
broken one time too often, not worth the effort
or time, you were too like this abandoned factory,
no longer worth the effort. Too expensive to keep,
the broken parts scattered, a puzzle with pieces missing.
And so it was you discovered your own strength.
Not a mighty thing, a quiet, step by frightening step understanding,
rebuilding, less artist and more mason, brick by brick,
an era of trial and error, of healing and rehab,
piecing together the rubble, finding most of you somehow still there,
a restoration project, nothing more, until a decade and more later
you still live, not quite what you were. Not quite new.
Simply a thing that works, reduced and wiser both,
content to live as best you can. Amazingly, happy.
There are no secrets.
There is no magic.
There is only work.
About this poem.
I have long believed what where we are and where we have been is less important than our trajectory. And that the rate of progress is less important than the mere fact that there IS progress.
There is only work. It’s what saves us.