The Artist Is Present (A Poem)

On a weathered foundation,
Raise the scaffolding
So we can carry
paint and mortar
To abandoned corners.
Where plaster crumbles
And wallpaper curls,
To reveal golden edges
Long-veiled by idle hands.

Tendons groan
as we reach.
Our hearts,
With frail sinew,
Stretch to touch
The textures and
Passage of time.
Yet we remember
The patience assumed
In a love
Too-long forgotten.

We are steady
Trusting wood and steal,
Familiar structures
Of perfect love,
A surety always surprising,
A restoration urgent,
Yet unhurried.

You remain,
Your eyes fixed
On the work,
Your voice bearing
No subtlety
Of impatience or defeat.
“I am here to help,” you say.
“But more than anything,
I am here.”

A stranger
Slowly walks by.
“What are you doing up there?” he says.
He shakes his head
And walks on,
Unaware of the resonance,
The immanence uncovered
in the unseen work --
The tension felt
in weariness and wonder,
In self-doubt and surrender,
In rending and revival.

We do not know
How many days,
How many hours
We will be here.
Each day,
We expect you to be gone,
But then you walk in,
Bringing the morning --
Its warmth,
Its newness.

You look up.
The beauty
Always surprises you.
“Wow,” you say,
“It’s easy to forget
What resurrection feels like.”
You quietly laugh
Before you slowly
Sip your coffee.

“I’m here if you need anything.”