Worth Saving

You can imagine the pier as it once was.
Decking firm across the pilings.
Lobster boats roped to the cleats.
You can almost hear what it was.
Waves cutting underfoot.
Seagulls hovering, squalking.
Boats against bumpers against the pier.

You can imagine it
even though you have never seen the pier intact.
It your memory it has always been what it is.
Ruins in the early morning fog.
Neglected long enough it was no longer
worth the effort to rebuild.
Too much trouble to tear down,
enough of itself to be a charming relic.

You can imagine it because you have been it.
Neglected. Abandined. Left to the weather.
Dried out. You have been that charming relic.
Standing out of habit more than intent.

Restoration is an act of will. An act of love. Rarely done.
Even less often done well. It is hard work
clawing back from near collapse.
I doubt anyone will reclaim this pier.
It will remain the thing of foggy mornings
and photographs. I might have, too had, not a good soul
or two decided I was worth saving.

And here I am. Not quite so charming.
Certainly not photogenic. but a thing of use once again,
in love of ruins, not for what they are,
but for what they were, and could be again.
Capturing each one as an act of thanksgiving and hope.

About this poem

Thinking of three people who got me through my toughest times – Bethany McLemore (my therapist), Carol Johnston and David Blugerman – friends and pastors. Rejoicing in their faithfulness to loving God’s people, even the broken. Maybe especially the broken.

The photograph was taken in Provincetown, Mass.

Tom