You wonder sometimes how it is the cables still hold
so long into their life, covered in rust,
still strong somehow, how they hold the old railroad bridge,
hold those who still cross it. hold
over the river below, fifty years, more since their
installation, some engineer knowing more
than the rest of us about the fortitude of steel,
figuring in time and weather and rust
and yet, somehow, still useful. Still safe.
About this poem
A poem about a bridge near me. A poem about my life. Both wonders.
A poem about some of the families I serve in hospice, and how, when a parent, who has often been ill for the longest time, passes, there is a sense of the strength of the family passing with them. How, even in their frailness, that parent is a symbol of strength for the whole family. It is my hope that I will have been that for my own kids (Not that I am in any hurry.)
Poetry is never about one thing.