poetry, Uncategorized

A Broken Broom, Sweeping

Jagged, glittering tides

Of broken glass

Piled up before the will

Of the broken broom

Pushed around

As the wind howls

 

The air is still

Atomic silences

Finding relief

In picking through

The aftermath

Seeing what survived

 

Letters ravaged

Into sodden ribbons

Entire symphonies

Of memories reduced

To faint melodies

Carried on the wind

 

Smiling at the detuned

Sky and remembering

The trick of breathing through

Not closing down but open

Even when, no especially

When it hurts

 

He called the storm

Upon himself

Sought to live

Somewhere uncharted

Without memory

Without recrimination

 

It blew the house down

But he stayed inside

Knowing the foundations

Would hold and he came up

Knowing he’d survived and

Would again

 

Clearing a space

Room enough to dance in

Not everything was lost

He cleans up a cut which will scar

But there’s a story in it

Which was part of his gift

 

His curse.

But there’s coffee brewing in the

Pot and light enough

To write by, to live by

And he can breathe just as well

In the dark.

 

He will not say

The storm’s name

It has passed and

In the surviving will live

Past when it’s an anecdote

Told to strangers

 

He will be glad

To count himself amongst them

 

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2 thoughts on “A Broken Broom, Sweeping

  1. shaunsthreshold says:

    This reads as a powerful salvage operation. I initially thought the chop and change from howling wind to still air, and then back to numerous references to storm was jarring, but after more readings I see the underlying confusion as totally appropriate. Well done again, Matt.

    Like

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