“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break- it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

pushing up.

a march of morning rain
cradles the heavy head of this quiet city

the weary are wonderful sleeping
dreaming of their far aways

and while i’ve met them, loved them,
they were never mine, no

mine- are the still clinging ivy, the seeds
filled with patient life

who despite what they know
brave such a concrete cold

pushing up, always
pushing up.