Good morning! It’s rainy in Southern Indiana this morning. Local storms will visit all day according to the weather man. A good day for reading and writing. . .and sharing.

I originally wrote this poem in September 2008. While I am waiting for today’s inspiration (reflecting upon the day), I thought to post this one to respond to the invitation by Ellen Hopkins to use this day, not for the burning of words, but to demonstrate how they can glow all on their own. The power of a word, a line, or a piece, even if in an early draft, can warm the embers we had earlier thought to have gone white wish ash. Take some time today to reflect upon the healing properties of words. We would no sooner burn a pile of bandages or a vessel of healing balm than we would a book, if we honored the power of a word and how it might speak to the heart that needs to see, hear, or read it. God bless.

Mr. Hankins

“Crossbeam”: For Patriot’s Day 2008

We approached Ground Zero to find silence,

a stillness in the air that could float ash and tear alike,

with the same light reverence,

holding them aloft against Manhattan blue,

never to touch the ground,

but be swept up- up to heaven to find grace and rest;

one would swear they glistened as they met the sun.

But that was so many years ago;

the memory-like images begin to fade

and curl at the corners like so many pictures,

pulled from boxes and albums in haste,

tucked in the chainlink of barrio fences calling

the names upon  square fabric patches  to later become quilts

that no one could sleep under for fear of dreaming

that the day was one from which we could awaken.

When we could return,

the patriots, the lovers, the lost, collected;

the whole of the ground was too much for eyes,

and so the people became we’s ,

looking through fence holes to find remnants of strength.

A hand on a shoulder looked like hospice for the soul

and a hand in a hand was communion for dry mouths

that tried hard to swallow braced against lungs

which yearned to scream content to breathe

in and out in and out.

There

through a fence crack – sacrament –  lone- standing strength,

upon a hill of insult, blood, sweat, and tears,

clinging to a foundation of wonder and promise,

a crossbeam , poised, pointing to the Maker

offering blessings from the blast

enough to last until no man would have to find his crossbeam

in the shadow of opposing turrets

or the scope of a rifle

but in hands joined in silent prayer

on this:

Our  Patriot Day.