“Self-Portrait”

I’ve often wondered how it feels
To be a bridge – cement on steel,
There in some harbor, reaching land,
But rooted firm ’neath ocean sand.

The rising tide comes twice each day,
Which carries city’s sludge away;
Restoring nutrients on flats,
While raising boats from where each sat –

Then tide goes out to get refreshed,
Which ships engage, then, better yet,
Move out beyond its inbound sweep,
Until returning from the deeps.

That bridge – what of its lonely stance,
As frothing waves beneath it dance?
As mists role in, or storms of sleet,
Rain, snow, and frost – new season’s treats?

To me it stands there, stalwart-like;
Its function clear, by day or night –
Let people use it to convey
There parceled lives above the waves.

But at a level more profound,
How does it feel to be around,
But not take part, except at each end
Which lets the folks ascend, descend?

To me that’s how I spend my days –
Foot on each end, while road that’s paved
Is role that’s mine – without which part,
No car would think to voyage start.

They’d think I’m pretty from afar,
Though vantage poor from truck or car;
“Just play your role supporting us,
And stalwart be without the fuss –

“Some bridges make when failing spans
Cause great destruction, crashing vans;
Though photogenic, making plots
For TV footage – there’s such loss”.

But if I played the role of bridge,
The hardest part, unlike some ridge
On prairie landscape lone and wild?
I’d not participate the while.

For no-one walks where my feet stand
(Third-culture-kid, in no-man’s-land) –
Wild prairie ridge is part of life,
Can shelter give on stormy night.

The point of bridge is movement out –
Both men, and seas which swirl about;
Wish passage safe, move on from here
Dismissing thought of danger near.

Each year they’d make repairs in time,
Spruce up with paint some color fine;
But it’s a passive, steady role,
And mine for life – no need for goals –

For I’ve arrived – contract; expand;
Like breath of living on each land,
Until some day I’m taken down,
Crushed to a pulp to fill some ground.

But I see lots folks never see,
By day and night above the sea –
Great hopes of voyages ahead;
Returning triumphs – dreams now dead.

I glimpse relationships a spell;
See family-life from heaven, hell;
Support despairing’s final time
Before that plunge to swirling brine.

I watch, but cannot then affect
The lives I see, ’cept show respect,
And pray my constant moaning prayers
For moving lives of passing players.

Lord, that’s my life – not what I’d seen –
I’ve done a lot, a lot I’ve seen;
But mostly, I’m a constant bridge;
Not sheltering like prairie ridge.

Thanks Lord for this.

navigation