Poem By Angelicum Oda

After the storm march, to seek the aimless
Rubble of our house. Beaneath filth and boulder,
Parts keep, days revealing each to wonder
Of our probing hands. What wistful names possess
These items-wood, lock, familiar foyer

Of home, door? Softly, we pronounce them, seizing
Memory before word, told once when like warriors
We brawled against flood and tempests; time packing
Our bags but still we stayed. Suddenly Mere glass is more
Than window or rim to measure and restore;

Remembrance more than a dream we pocket after
Sleep. Again, we nail back walls to stand;
Patch a future together from nearly nowhere:
Cardboard box, iron sheet-this is roof, remember?
Aware, we shift through scraps of preplanned

Ventures, and chuck out once we could not shell
Anymore within these shaken borders. This, finally,
Is reform: refitting pieces for change intrinsically
Of need, redrawinglinks so we can rebuild, retell,
Retake the stories of our broken house.

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