When I see a brave building
straining high, and higher,
hard and bright and sassy in the seasons,
I think of the hands that put that strength together.
The little soft hands. Hands coming away from cold
to take a challenge and to mold this definition.
Amazingly, men and women
worked with design and judgment, steel and glass,
to enact this announcement.
Here it stands.
Who can construct such miracle can enact
any consolidation, any fusion.
All little people opening out of themselves,
forging the human spirit that can outwit
big Building boasting in the cityworld.
I am late with my Friday Poetry this week. Buddy hasn't been sleeping well and Thursday night he was up three or four times with bad dreams and night fears. He comes into my room whimpering and I let him stay for a while but then I want him back in his own bed because I can't sleep well with him there snoring and kicking me. I need my space. Last night I just gave up and let him stay with me. I guess he needs the comfort and I did get a little more sleep. Punkin is cutting new molars and was up a couple of times crying too. So Thursday night no one got any sleep. I am a walking zombie. One of our congressmen came to school to talk to the kids on Friday and I couldn't even remember if he was from my district or not I am in such a fog. I told the other librarian I am just trying to stay upright today. I guess I better try to catch up on reading the paper before the election - is it next week or the week after?
Anyway I love this poem by Gwendolyn Brooks. It gives me such hope; those little soft hands working with design and judgment to raise steel and glass. I am always awed, looking at big buildings. How do they do that? And thank God "Who can construct such miracle can enact any consolidation, any fusion. All little people opening out of themselves..." I need that promise, coming in to this election. This month I have been reading the prophet Micah, all about justice. I can't help thinking of our government and injustice. We need all the words of hope and encouragement we can get.
tags: Friday Poetry sleep mothering politics