And so I ask myself
why THESE people
knowing it's a rhetorical question
there never being enough time
to subject the whims and wiles
of fate to psychoanalysis
Yet even the most callous
among us surveying this devastation
would surely give pause to reflect
Why THESE people?
These humble people
these salt of the earth people
raising families
making ends meet
one way or t'other
filling the churches to capacity
on Sunday mornings
And every year
it's the same deadly fury
touching down from the sky
like the fingers of God
so beautiful in its own horrific way
And yet
survivors
not cursing the dawn
just feeling thankful
to be alive
their faith undiminished
unshaken
in the terrible awe-filled light
of morning
Yes they could leave
but their roots grow deep
in the earth and the soil
the seeds of their destiny
sown at an early age
Not like me
the kid who grew up among them
who heard the siren songs calling
on distant radio stations
deep into the night
the kid who was always going to leave
who nonetheless
never forgot
where he came from
So maybe you can understand
when I bow my head
and ask why THESE people?
These stoic people
these turn the other cheek people
these do with me what you will O' Lord people
Already contemplating the rebuilding work ahead
Just another of life's puzzles
I guess
the jigsaw pieces scattered
like the haphazard wreckage of their lives
