More Complete for the Cracks

No one has lived here for at least fifteen years.
That is how long it has been since you moved
to this little town in Vermont.
Each year the growth grows wilder, fresh
with new thorns and seed pods waiting
for a good wind.

It is an empty place. Nothing was left behind.
The floor has collapsed
and in a season or two, the roof will follow,
Its roofline bowed and nearly broken.

You have taken dozens of pictures
of this cabin over the years, each year
something of a pilgrimage
to see if it still stands. Every year surprises me
when indeed, it does.

I have a weakness for the quietly defiant ones.
People. Places. Cultures. Churches.
The ones that defy the odds and still stand
long after their expiration date.
I see shadows of my own past in them,
surprised as I am at my own survival,
well aware of the broken parts
but equally aware of the miracle
that I still stand, my soul more complete
for all the cracks, wondering who will make the pilgrimage
to see me stand when nothing makes sense.

About this poem

The photograph is of a place not far from my home, just over the border in New York.

If you read me regularly, I do not have to tell you about my affinity for the abandoned. People and places.

I’d like to think someone will still read my poems or treasure my paintings long after I am gone.

From all that, this poem.

Tom