Where do they go?
Where do they come from?
Pipes in the abandoned factory,
rusted, still whole, still capable
of transport, but empty
because of the failures of others,
neglected into ruin
and yet somehow, also
About this poem
Driving from church to my favorite diner this morning, I felt a wonder, at the journey of the last fifteen years, at the journey ahead, of a journey from ruin to rise. From abandonment to being held in the arms of love, again and again.
A little overwhelming. In a good way.
PS: The picture was taken in an abandoned factory in New Hampshire. I have no idea what it was meant to be, but it felt like art.