Among the broken things

Survival is equal to creation

Caspar David Friedrich, The Tree of Crows, 1822

Among the broken things

I have observed that after storms,
some trees grow crooked
and others strong.
And after the weight of winter snows,
some branches snap whilst others don’t.
It is in the stillness after storms
the mystery of resilience endures.
Miracles are material to me,
here among the broken things.

Later, those who’ve known no storms
come walking through clearings.
Where from the long fallen
rise the saplings proud and tall.
Here resplendent in the summer sun,
it’s hard to believe in winter winds.
Yet still we sing,
here among the broken things.

Behold their boughs bent back
their branches cracked.
Clawing crooked limbs,
holding on to meagre greying leaves.
You see only weakness.
But what survives the wreckage
is not weakness.
You survey the vessel not the voyage.
The outcome is the cost,
their victory was not cheap.
You’ll never know the tempest.
That standing twisted as they are,
eschewed as they are viewed,
survival is equal to creation.
As we stand in flawless June,
here among the broken things.

A warning cracks from the thunderheads.
Woe to those who judge the broken
without knowledge of what broke them.
You would buckle from the weight of it.
Judgment without experience is a rootless thing.
Those who stand tall now should know:
The storm, past the valley, past the mountain, it is coming.
Though you cannot hear it, it is coming.
Like an echo, like tomorrow, like a shadow.
You turn your back, but it remains.
As you will too,
here among the broken things.