I keep coming across the same wreckage
It looks like a hurricane has swept through here.
What used to be studs holding up walls
are splintered, broken like discarded toothpicks.
Trees lying there, leaves still green
not knowing they are near death,
their mother waiting for the chainsaw.

Or is all this detritus
the victim of sabotage?

My mind is a tropical storm
wreaking havoc, making debris,
ten thousand twenty six
leaves scattered about me
on the way to death -
Definitions, firmly rooted:

Cooking healthy is too much work.
Exercise is pain.
I'm too old to change.
I just can't help it.
You know, I have needs.

My failures are a train of trials
cars full of rusted twisted iron
layers and lines of denials
scrap tires worn out by the miles.

But if my bad habits trail behind me
the good ones brought me here
standing tall, soaking up the sun
the sound of the birds
the sweet soft wind
tickling the hairs on my arms.

My breath fresh from brushed teeth
my shoes tied, my shirt buttoned,
my marriage secure from ten thousand twenty three
choices to stop and talk and listen and touch her arm
and kiss her full lips.

My mind is fertile soil
being cleared of rocks and weeds
waiting to be planted
with affections not taken for granted
with saplings and seeds
prospects of good deeds
and open range
and now-moments of change.

See what wonders the strong winds blew?
A few sparkly glimmers
strewn here too.

08/25/2012

Posted on 08/25/2012
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier