How many times have I done this before?
Taken these broken stones to rebuild this broken house.
Was this stone ever fresh?
Once, when it was whole… maybe
That is but a distant memory.
Yet. I start fresh – with broken things,
The debris of dust and air.
The remains of yesterday.
I always took a moment to look at the calmness that lay afterwards.
At the poignant beauty of destruction
The charred remains of a life rewritten
Like a tree that grows from a raped stump A few moments of naked brown flesh
Then the business of green growth
For what else is it but business?
This rebuilding of broken lives?
If emotions were involved A poem would be uttered at the first end
May be a few tears;
Then the chapter would be closed – it would be
The very last end!
The land would be left behind.
Not this rehashing and re-birthing of lives.
So, I rebuild these walls
Rebuild this door, this…