Vulnerable and Raw and Powerful

A bar of soap. Homemade from the looks of it.
A little rough. Whiteish.
Specks of something dark throughout.
You wonder briefly what they might be.

The soap lies in a dish, also homemade,
crafted of young grape vines and twigs
from the nearby woods. Oddly elegant
in its simplicity. Beautifully imperfect.

You heard birds as you woke this morning.
One of the gaps in your education is birdsong,
and you have no idea if they are happy
or kvetching about the new day with its struggles.

But you listen. Prefering to believe in their joy.
Preferring, like a child, to believe
they are singing to you, a Pied Piper song,
beautiful and lethal to the morning demons

that plague you at the start of every day.
helpers in the battle, small and irrepressibly joyful
with their simple fate. God-given allies
in a hour that has few of those.

You reach for the soap. A museum piece
in a way. Something from your travels.
“Made by traditional methods!”
the wrapper declares.

It is the simplicity that attracted.
Hardly any ingredients. A bit harsh
compared to store-bought. But
maybe that is good.

At times shedding a bit of skin is good for you.
It gives the new skin a place to breathe,
to become what it is meant to be, and so
it becomes part of your morning ritual:

Washing. Scrubbing. Feeling the old skin
pull away. Feeling the new skin tingle.
Fresh and new and ready for the battle,
vulnerable and raw. And more powerful for it.

About this poem

Inspired by a journal entry this morning. About choosing the hard things that make us better. About depression. About the power of allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. About how we start our day matters. Oh, and about old soap. Poetry is never about one thing.

The picture was taken at the American Frontier Museum in Staunton, Virginia. Prints are available for sale at FIne Art America.

Tom