Clouds roil the sky. The storm has not left.
Debris litters the street. Limbs. Furniture. Trees.
Later, the sun will cut through. The wind will wilt
and the work begins. Cleaning. Repairing
the things that can be repaired.
Hauling away the broken things.
There’s no pretending the storm never came,
though we try, so hard, to make it all as if
it never happened.
About this poem
Inspired by a prayer sent to me by a friend this morning.
After tragedy or trauma, we spend a lot of our life trying to restore things as they were. I have come to a place where I wonder if that is what we should be doing, or should we instead look for the new that can rise from the ruin. I have no answers. Only questions.