The deep hum
takes on a mournful note
when solitudes are silent at the edges
when voices are stilled
as the churches crumble away
and the cadence of community falters
when the falling apart has dropped its icicle shards
and the tinkling music of their smashing
has echoed its thrumming through the land.
The cornerstones that held our families
– hymns, justice, work bees –
have crumbled into necessary dust.
We need new bricks, new tools for building,
interlocking, sustainable,
mounted with flexible intent
by people who pledge allegiance to nothing at all.
These are my people,
the empty ones who make room for space,
who can hold each other as the walls fall down
in order to build with courage
a new tomorrow.
These are my sisters,
the ones who embrace my tears
because they hear the joy below them.
These are my brothers,
who find in their feelings a new honour
and share them with their sons.
These are my missing people,
hiding in the woods,
listening to the wind
so they can find their way.
Humming in the trees
so we can find each other.
Singing new songs in old ways
to celebrate the splendour.