The quarry’s rubble almost exposed,
in that place between beautiful and broken.
This is why you live here.
For the quiet. For the time to let your soul wake
peacefully, your spirit matched to the landscape,
an creature of the almost.
It is too far into winter for the birds to leave their nests.
Only the wind sings, low and dark,
through the slate mounds and chasms,
a sweet sad ghost sound to wake you and your ghosts.
You do not wait. There is, you have learned, death in waiting.
You rise with an energy you do not believe.
You pray thankfulness you do not feel.
You breathe in the light and sing a wordless hymn,
dark harmony with the wind.
You breathe in the morning. Deep and slow.
This is how you fight your demons,
less a frontal war than a war of harmony,
weaving in and out of the light and shadows,
some days laughing like a child dodging balls,
some days bleeding like a casualty of war,
and ancient warrior, aware of your impending death,
but far more aware of the joys of survival.
At last, the sun rises over the mountain.
Colors awake. Shadows become things.
The day has begun. There is music in the air,
a victory song to begin your day, fleeting and strong.
About this poem
My morning. The picture was taken in the quarry across from my house.