Good writing, with a strong point and with life oozing out.

that which endures

October 19, 2008

the room behind the place where we meet on Sundays
is a crowded and forsaken place, collecting
the flotsam of a combination music school/
coffee shop/bar/concert venue/restaurant
and storage for a weird church that meets here
there’s a generator on the floor and shelves crammed
with chafing dishes and paper cups and decorations
balloons and lights and papers and books and junk
visitors choose their steps carefully as they
shuffle along the narrow path to the back,
especially when the space is flooded with a foot of water

it is dry today, though grains of sand crunch on the floor
and right in middle of the mess is a box, sitting
on a pile of disarray with a bolt of light blasting
through the door and illuminating the fragile word scrawled
on the side in Sharpie marker:

the box has been here since last winter:
Advent, in fact, when we spent each week thinking
about love, hope, joy, and something else I should remember
all four boxes were stowed in this hold, but only hope remains

and it ain’t pretty, either
the printing is faded, the cold and heat and cold and humidity
have taken their toll and left their musty remembrances
the cardboard is de-laminated from flooding and drying, and
the formerly proud cube is now smashed into a parallelogram
but peek inside to where the contents are scrambled, yet unbroken

for a whole year, our collective hopes have endured
through flood and cold and darkness and neglect
forgotten, forsaken, and nearly crushed
faded, traded, fostered, handled by strangers
…yet we’ve treated our hope to bright sunny days,
for warmth and care, restoration and rehab
now our hope is tattered, weathered, leathered
not much to look at, perhaps, but hope remains

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4 Responses to “that which endures”

  1. Mike Croghan says:


    It ain’t entirely within our hands, I guess. Which is sorta reassuring. :-)

  2. Anonymous says:

    Faith is truly being sure of what we hope for…and who we hope in.
    Tom D.M.

  3. lovely, thanks.

    also lovely just the story of the poem. sitting ripening in a storage room for a year, waiting to be discovered.

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