He came upon the shrine
after hardship
and saw in it only stone.
So far had he come for this moment
and so lost he felt now that he was upon it.
He stared at the lines on his hands,
each scribble open, gray and ugly,
each mark a passage in time.
The shrine had one door
and two tiny windows cut in stone.
He entered holding his breath,
the floor recently swept,
the door recently oiled.
There was nothing in the room.
He felt the blisters on his feet,
the taste of blood in his mouth,
a sting of sweat in his eyes.
He sat on the floor, sighed,
perfectly satisfied.
By Michael Brownstein
Michael H. Brownstein writes: You're on the roof of your old house, the roof in serious disrepair, but you walk on it as if you're on a boardwalk – a squirrel falls through where you just stood – what is left to do but go to all fours, tread carefully until you’re on safe ground, call the roofers (you can’t fix this), and write a poem.
You're walking across a great field, firecrackers exploding. You swat away at dozens of mosquitoes. Near where you teach, the security guard tackles you and points out a sniper who has been shooting at you as you crossed. There is nothing else to do but conduct a poetry workshop in your algebra class.
You go camping, and a rattlesnake crawls into your sleeping bag. Prayer and poetry – they really do go together.
On and on. Take a break. Write a poem.
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