Praying Over Ruins

What prayers
do we offer

over the charred remains,

the broken metal,
the burst glass shining beside the road,
doors bent backward like wounded wings,
headlights staring blindly
into the grass?

And what is it
we hope for there?

Not that the wreck
will rise again whole.

Not that time
will move backward through fire.

But that those who survived

may continue.

That they may wake
and read a book beside a window.

That they may walk slowly
through a grocery store
choosing oranges or bread.

That they may love again
without flinching at every sudden sound.

That sleep may someday return to them
like a shy animal
crossing cautiously out of the woods.

Why else do we stand
before ruin so quietly?

Why else do we pray
over twisted things?

Perhaps because we cannot bear
the thought

that suffering is only suffering.

Perhaps because somewhere inside us
there remains the small wild hope

that even now
what has been shattered
may enter another life,

not restored,

but transformed.

I think this is what the heart wants:

not perfection,

only the mysterious permission
to continue.

And so we leave the wreckage at last.

The tow trucks carry it away.
Rain begins again.
The road empties itself into evening.

But those who walk away from disaster

carry two things together:

fear

and gratitude.

Fear, because they have seen
how suddenly a life can open
into darkness.

Gratitude, because against all reason

they are still here,

walking beneath the trees,

breathing the cold air,

following the long road home.