I have no idea when I wrote this poem but I remember how it came to me — almost whole, tumbling out of my brain onto the paper. Like a monarch dropping out of the chrysalis. And, like a butterfly, it also needed a bit of time to dry out its wings, but then it was ready to go.
It came to mind again after my post about pillars a couple of weeks back. It seems to offer a kind of hope for the future which is nevertheless rooted in loss. I offer it as a gift to all the Rebuilders out there.
after the flood reestablish a vanished generation. let new eros reclaim the western hills, bare notion moving freely at dawn, mist evaporating with the coming sun, warming the belly of love once again, marking the end of our isolation for those who observe the landscape, scout old signs and start community. I remember a city full of marvels, ancient secrets heaving the pavement, crabgrass and knotweed greening concrete fissures, seeding trenches with irrepressible life now rising, fine-haired roots tangling in rubble to cover the foul, stubs and smell of the hopeless long trodden down. do you remember the revolution? a mob still rages at us on the edge of faint memory, the ledge above a dry riverbed where we walked free through the seething crowd, passing like water through fists — people have startling powers to save, steal, heal and destroy. one lone stretcher-bearer drifts in grief among the ashen remains, sole voice singing to survivors to pick up their beds and walk. I sat dumb, lame at the city gate till the road brought me children at last, laughing and chattering, alive to ask the needful questions.Â
Oh, magnificent! Sweet and hallowed words echoing in empty space awaiting the light just coming in the window. The poem a window and the sun always coming. Thank you.