A Beautiful Relic, with Noise.

All the parts are in place.
Every gear fits the next,
a marvel of 19th-century engineering.
Counterweights hang in the walls,
and the whole mechanism glistens with fresh oil.
Above hangs the bell. Huge. Cast iron.
When it rings you can hear it in the next town.

But it takes work. Without work, a flawed human
with the will to wind the heavy weights each week,
it becomes a silent piece of iron. A beautiful relic.
Functional. Until it is not;
And when it is still from lack of energy,
lack of spirit; when it grows quiet,
it is missed for miles.

About this poem

About the clock and bell tower in my church in Rupert, Vermont. That is the works of the clock in the photograph. About aging and my own realization that I matter until I no longer have the energy to beat back my depression every day and do good work. About being a parent, a preacher, a husband. I am a caretaker of spirits, until mine is spent, and the next one comes along.

I’ve been hoarding this picture for years, waiting for the poem in it to show up. Today it did. The morning is off to a good start.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom