the damage isn’t done,

we convince ourselves

as we sit in a row on the curb

sunken arms draped over our knees.

 

a hodgepodge congregation

of prayers in vain,

because who is there to ask

why our slates are wiped

bare at the foundations?

 

it’s not always easy

to find the beauty

in rubble,

grey cinderblock artwork,

red-orange bricks, white mortar,

cotton candy strips of insulation.

 

and by the time the sun

lurches its slow roll up the horizon,

we do what we can

to make sense out of shambles.

not even the greatest oklahoma winds

could grab the sun with strong hands

and press it back into yesterday.

 

we remember the sunrise

as we pick up the pieces.

every day starts as a chance

to begin again,

if we can muster up the might

to rebuild.

 

the damage isn’t done,

we declare to ourselves.

 

in every defeat,

awaits a victory

just aching to take

its first breath of tomorrow.

 

let them all watch in awe

as we start from scratch

among the ruin of our old house

and from the ground,

rises our home.