“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.
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