I read somewhere that once every four days,
a barn here in Vermont collapses,
falls on itself, becomes rubble,
these once-proud workplaces of the agricultural economy,
left behind, unable to sustain what they were,
unable to find a new path.
So when I see one still standing, paint freshish,
I rejoice. Someone is making it work.
The news is full of revolution.
Last year’s. Next year’s.
Pictures of mobs in the capital on the internet,
on the front page, on the TV.
Anger spilling over, creating more anger.
Nothing built in its place.
No lessons learned on either side of the war,
just a new coat of paint every couple of years
covering the rot beneath,
waiting, like the barns that die
at the rate of one every four days,
for the fall.
About this poem
It is January 6th and the news is full of the insurrection a year ago. The anger still remains. Blame flies like arrows of fire. And no one, on either side, seems to understand the principles of healing. Or care. Right is the thing. Not healing.
Sometimes, I think I think weirdly.
Off my soapbox. There’s work to do.