Fragile and Formidable
Wind rattles the windows.
A storm outside.
Cold November wind rips debris
from the trees and throws it
crackling against the windows.
You hear a sharp snap,
something big and heavy breaking outside,
a landscape changing in the night.
You take a deep breath as you go outside.
Some days, it is hard to recognize the topography
in this place you have lived so long.
You see something different than most.
If nothing else you have learned that.
You see hope where there is none,
a creature of your own experience, armed
with a strange determination
to make a difference with the most fragile
foreign, and formidable of weapons.
About this poem.
Even when I am not feeling it. Maybe especially when I am not feeling it. I spend a lot of time preaching to myself.