Resurrection on 287

I’ve seen 
the broken down house
on highway 287  


cinderblock walls, 
only rafters left for a roof,
a gaping hole where
a once presentable 
exterior used to be.


When I drive by
my broken down heart—
though jaded and cynical
by all accounts—
is filled with brutal 
longing.


I fantasize
about pulling the car over
and rushing to what was once
the doorway and running
my hands over ruined 
cinderblocks and wood
until the love of the place
would change it
like a Resurrection—
a new house from these
crumbled cinderblocks.


maybe this is how I know
I really do believe
in all things
made new—


one day—
my heart like
the cinder block house,
all coarse and rough will be
smoothed out with sandpaper
the walls rebuilt to safety,
the shutters painted,
the door flung recklessly wide—
(because being whole and loved
will do that to you.)


and what meals we will share!
in a kitchen once marked by 
ash and rubble,
with fruits from the garden
growing wild out back 
just because it can
there is nothing to stop it.


The ruined house 
on 287 reminds me of
what sometimes seems
so terribly easy 
to forget—


that
I really do believe
in the Resurrection. 

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