broken
“The jewelery box lid is broken.”
“I can fix it,” I told her, years ago.
I can fix it. I just haven’t done so.
The top of the box is a painting
of Boston Common on a snowy day
in another time, people walking
across the park at twilight.
The four pieces that framed it
lie on top of the dresser, waiting
to be remembered into wholeness.
I walk by every morning without
the glue or the intention to fix
what is broken. Now I have gone
so long that broken seems normal.
How did I become accustomed
to a life of unfinished and disrepair?
I can fix it; I just haven’t done so.
Peace,
Milton
*This is a response to the Poetry Party at Abbey of the Arts.
8 comments:
I like this a lot. It's simple, but powerful.
beautiful; painful
Well done poem. Good stuff.
waiting
to be remembered into wholeness
a beautiful sentiment - a lovely poem with just a touch of melancholy...
another beautiful contribution Milton, I always look forward to your thoughtfulness and depth.
What a beautiful poem. The last stanza really hit home.
How did I become accustomed
to a life of unfinished and disrepair?
I can fix it; I just haven’t done so.
Fixing things can get to be a wearisome job. Seems like one thing gets fixed and another is broken waiting for repair. We must persevere.
Yeah, very nice. In my own life i have these things that I just don't do. And the longer I don't do them the less likely it is that they will get done. What's one more day after 425 days?
so wonderful. I'm a little jealous of you, Milton. a confession.
No, you are a wonderful writer.
Post a Comment