For Those Who Still Stand
This one, you tell yourself, cannot be saved.
The fire consumed too much, leaving
a roof to become rubble, walls to fall,
glass to break, all of it leaning,
the bones ash.
That is the way of it.
Far more can be restored than we believe,
more than we even attempt, but
there is a breaking place, a place without return,
a fatal ending, even when walls still stand
wobblyjawed and leaning.
You are not in the saving business.
You know your limits. You know the truth
that saving begins long before the end, to wait
guarantees ruin. You have seen it too often.
Your finger brushes the truss, blackening your skin.
You shed a tear for a moment and turn away.
There is work to do
for those that still stand.
About this poem.
About buildings. About people. About our nation. About our faith. We all have a point.