Photo by Sabbra Cadabra
Field Guide to What Remains
Abraham Aondoana
After the fire,
the land does not rush.
Ash gets to know the grammar of wind.
It is little at first–what remains.
a beetle sharpening his gloomy armor,
a green thought insisting
through cracked ground.
I catalog what’s left:
the sound of rain returning,
the patience of stones,
my hands, still useful.
No one tells you how much life
prefers beginning quietly.
How time to heal comes like less victory.
and more like listening.
I am learning this language–
how to see without feeling,
how to leave the world to rebuild itself.
without my apology.
Abraham Aondoana
After the fire,
the land does not rush.
Ash gets to know the grammar of wind.
It is little at first–what remains.
a beetle sharpening his gloomy armor,
a green thought insisting
through cracked ground.
I catalog what’s left:
the sound of rain returning,
the patience of stones,
my hands, still useful.
No one tells you how much life
prefers beginning quietly.
How time to heal comes like less victory.
and more like listening.
I am learning this language–
how to see without feeling,
how to leave the world to rebuild itself.
without my apology.