Both sides are a frayed mess — this comforter past its use — so old, glory faded, left out too long in harsh light.
Perhaps the center still holds; perhaps something smaller will suffice. It will never return to what it once was.
It won’t hold together.
Stitched together, created wonderfully, of many separate pieces. Now beauty undone, undone, undone…
united no more.
* * *
Written some time ago.
Before someone misinterprets this poem as “hankering for the Good Old Days,” let me say that I don’t believe in good old days… or bad old days. They were and are no more.
What this poem can mean is many things depending on your mindset — a new unity, a return to civility, a desire to not see the ship dismantled while we’re still on the ocean…. Many things. You are free to read into it what you see. I’m free to laugh and shake my head… while we can still claim that this is the land of the free.
Imagine a rabbit nibbling grass out by the portable classrooms of a city high school — the students, raised on technology, immersed in STEM curriculum, staring blankly at what clearly isn’t AI and what doesn’t fit into the laws of probability, unless you account for an infinite number of variables; perhaps chaos theory enters into it.
Many of the students will glance but not perceive. It requires too great a paradigm shift to observe and recognize.
But then there is that one student who sees, smiles up at me as I hold my classroom door open, and says,
That child will suffer greatly in this world and conceivably become a poet.