This distance I feel --the space between us --
surely it's not that far,
the water not that deep,
the current not that strong.
This bridge we once constructed --
hand in hand,
log by log,
labor fueled by love and longing --
when did it become unsafe to cross?
What natural disasters
ripped the boards from under our feet?
How is it we stopped trekking back and forth,
failed to notice as it dwindled with disuse?
It seems to me the pillars are still standing:
Do you think, perhaps,
that we might build it up again?
Or shall we continue standing on opposing shores,
tossing love notes like feathers into the wind?
* * *
1 comment:
In a sense it was our own feet that ripped up the boards as we tread with too heavy step not seeing the damage being done.
Not disuse but misuse and misunderstanding the need to care for the foundation, repairing tears and cracks before they became gapping holes.
How many love note feathers will it take to mend the bridge?
Mo
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