un dia nuevo.

This is for everything left out in the rain.
For all the rusts in the dew.

For the light of the long-extinct star and hole
in everything, everywhere it shines through.

This is for the splint and the chuck and the shim
always offering their wings, their faint prayer.

For the bucket of limbs at Shiloh. For the boy
clutching a wound in the air.

This is for whatever, foredoomed and forsaken,
makes and then fails to make do.

For my child’s stick-figure-filled heaven.
For the heaven we believed in once too.

This is for everything, everywhere turning to nothing.
For the sun, and for me, and for you.

—

Because everything is worth something

“Everything” by Patrick Phillips  (via clavicola)