Insidious

The bottom of the door has been a bit broken for years.
A bit rotton . A bit worn. It hangs wobblyjawed,
Not fixable, it needs to be replaced
before the rot moves from one board to the next
and the whole door is lost.

It is a slow thing, rot. Coming from neglect,
an unhurried exposing of wood to weather,
the water and wind and sun, the storms
all allowed to have their way without protection,
so slow we become accustomed to the wear.

Until of course, it all comes undone
and in wonder we question how it happened,
ignoring our part in the death of things.
Neglect. Assumptions that all will hold fast
because it always has.

Rot can be treated. I learned that as a boy
watching my father restore furniture and wooden boats,
learning the skill. Learning the signs of when it is time
and when it is too late. Learning the art of replacement
and restoration. The need for patience and persistence,

and more importantly, the need to care for the things
we deem important,
to watch them as if they were about to flee, “
to do the small chores of maintenance
that prevent the rot before it takes root.

About this poem.

About so much it may be hard to put in a brief note here. About things. About love and relationships. About faith. About politics. About anything that matters, because the things that matter die not from big splashy collapses, but from tiny abandonments and pride, a loss of perspective of what is important and what is not.

Inspired by of all things, the candidacy of Marianne WIlliams. Williams is the author of “A Course on Miracles” and hasn’t a chance in the world to win the Democratice nomination. But she persists. I follow her, not because I feel she can possibly win, but because her campaign focuses on the things that matter, the things that make a people great – and it all starts with love for one another. Reading her emails and writings are a reminder to me that when we focus on the important things, when we focus on taking care of the important things, we hold together. I got one of my regular emails from her campaign today, and this poem came out of it.

The picture was taken at nearby Bedlam Farm, many years ago. It was one of those pictures that I knew had a poem in it. I just had no idea it would take almost a decade to show itself.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom