A draft ...

Moments of grace
in our settled sights,
a shakeup of elements,
         carnage --
then a breath.

Grace is in the bones unbroken,
skin intact, the integrity of organs --
but also in the wound,
         the fracture.  Rupture is not
the opposite of wholeness
but its condition.

Huddled under neighbors' blankets,
we let things go and breathe.

You won't remember this:
not the broken windows,
not the trucks or men in heavy yellow overalls,
not the incongruity
of Christmas lights crunching underfoot.
(I had meant to take them down.  No need.)

I know now that you will also not remember
when I lived there with you,
when we were one family,
when you and I and, yes, your father
faced each day together.
Close-knit.

Then, I only knew the world would look so different
on either side of that clear moment of grace.