Storm

The cast iron statue of an athlete
stood firm against any reckless lack of care.
Its heavy weight assured us nothing sturdy fails.
Beauty glows whenever even strangers’ eyes
or a sculptor’s hand prove it’s there
under the shallow surface of distress.
Our lives still remain beyond catastrophies
when, anonymous, all we knew
lay aimless, beyond repair, across the floor.
Identity, for the two of us, even now,
with only ruins to clarify
the world that was,
has no need for names.
Mind and body, put aside, or even gone,
still, we, speechless, know
where our meanings are.

Kirby Congdon