The Bridge of Life

The bridge, if you can call it that, stretches across the pond,
tilted this way and that, floating on the water,
held down by anchors that, when the creeks run wild,
hold portions of the crossing under the water.

Nothing about it is steady. It moves when you walk,
back and forth, bobbing up and down.
A few of the boards are rotten.
A few are recently repaired, just starting to grey with the sun.

You have your own name for it. That is a habit of yours,
giving things names, as if that makes them more
than inanimate objects as if it connects them to your world.
“The Bridge of Life” you call it. Uncertain, Unsteady.

and always, always
worth the crossing.

About this poem.

This morning I have been visiting with my hospice patients. As always, learning of their life and struggles. It is work I love. So the poem is about that.

This morning on the drive, I was told that I was a peaceful soul. And mostly, now I am. But it got me thinking about the crowd it took to get me here. Two fine therapists. A pair of loving pastors. A host of kind friends, And a few years. I thought about them all and felt grateful Not everyone is so blessed.

Poetry is never about one thing.

The picture was taken at the nearby Hebron Nature Reserve.

Tom