Three Poems on Repair, Burden, and Stewardship

— Adam Donaldson Powell

What Holds

Three Poems on Repair, Burden, and Stewardship

I. The Land of Experts

(Repair)

We run.

Not toward one another,
not toward
what is coming apart,

but toward the door
whose sign
promises solutions.

The lawyer
will solve
what we never dared to speak about.

The accountant
will tidy up
the years
of forgotten numbers.

The surgeon
will stitch together
what we tore apart.

The psychologist
will carry
what we never wanted
to lift ourselves.

The lifestyle expert
draws straight lines
across maps
they have not yet walked.

Rarely do we come
to learn
how to carry,
how to mend,
how to maintain.

We arrive instead
with a quiet hope

that someone
will tighten
the loose screw,

oil the hinges,

erase the marks,

so that we may continue

at the same speed,

along the same road,

toward the next collapse.

We want repair,

not repentance.

But the expert

is no magician.

The neurosurgeon
is sometimes
simply an electrician

who understands
the current
running through a human being.

The vascular surgeon
is a plumber

who knows
where life
is leaking away.

The lawyer
is a translator

between law
and regret.

The accountant
keeps the books

for everything
we hoped
no one would count.

The psychologist
may have found
their calling

on the day
they themselves
couldn’t find the way out.

The lifestyle expert
counts their own steps

while life
is happening
somewhere else.

For no one stands
outside
what they teach.

Everyone carries

their own fractures

beneath the white coat,

behind the tailored jacket,

between carefully chosen words.

Perhaps

that is why

they can help.

But no one

can live

our life

for us.

No one can maintain

a house

whose owner

comes home

only after

the roof has fallen in.

Perhaps salvation

does not begin

with the next expert,

but with the unusual question:

Can you teach me

to become

a little less dependent

on someone else

always repairing

what I refused

to care for?

— Adam Donaldson Powell

---

II. When Two Hearts Beat as One

(The Burden)

It sounds beautiful,

that two hearts

beat as one.

But the heart

is only a muscle.

Life asks

for far more.

It asks
for a friend

who listens

without fear.

A priest

who welcomes doubt

without needing
to win.

A psychologist

who can bear

hearing

the same words

for the hundredth time.

A mother.

A father.

A lover.

Someone
who laughs.

Someone
who remembers.

Someone
who says,

“Rest now.

I’ll carry this.”

When illness

or grief

moves in,

there is often

only one person left

to become

all of these.

One

becomes
the harbor,

the map,

the lighthouse,

and the lifeboat.

The other

carries

as best they can

what the body,

the mind,

or life itself

can no longer bear.

Neither

chose this.

Yet slowly

an invisible ledger

begins to grow.

Not

of money.

But of sleep

never slept.

Words

never spoken.

Tears

that had to wait.

Smiles

given on credit.

For love

keeps no double-entry accounts.

It does not calculate

who gave more.

It simply gives.

Until one day

it discovers

that even the heart

can go bankrupt.

And there is

no shame

in that.

For no one

was created

to be

best friend,

pastor,

psychologist,

parent,

nurse,

lover,

and home

all at once.

Two hearts

may beat

in the same rhythm.

But they can never replace

an entire landscape

of people.

Perhaps

the deepest love

is not saying,

“I will be everything for you.”

But rather,

“Let us find others

who can carry this

with us.”

For when

two hearts

beat as one,

the world around them

must beat

a little too.

— Adam Donaldson Powell

---

III. The Quiet Art of Maintenance

(Stewardship)

We put roofs

on our houses.

We paint the walls

before the rain

finds the timber.

We change the oil

before

the warning light

comes on.

No one

calls it heroism.

Only

maintenance.

Yet we live

as though

the heart

needs no such care.

We wait.

Until conversations

have hardened.

Until laughter

has moved away.

Until love

bears the marks

of carrying

too much

for too long.

Then we search

for someone

to rescue

what we never

looked after.

But life

is not sustained

by great rescue missions.

It is sustained

by small ones.

A phone call

for no particular reason.

A hand

on a shoulder.

A meal

placed on the table

before anyone asks.

An apology

before it becomes necessary.

Forgiveness

before bitterness

takes root.

Maintenance

rarely

looks

like a miracle.

It looks

more like

an ordinary Tuesday.

The coffee

already waiting.

The porch light

switched on

before

the other

comes home.

The question,

“How are you?”

asked

before the answer becomes,

“Not very well.”

For what holds

a life together

is seldom

the great thing

that happens

once.

It is

the small thing

that happens

again

and again.

That is how

the bridge holds.

That is how

the house stands.

That is how

the forest endures.

That is how

the heart remains whole.

And perhaps

love

is not first

what saves us

after everything falls apart.

Perhaps

love

is arriving

a little earlier.

Seeing

the small crack.

Oiling

the hinges.

Watering

the garden.

Sitting down

before someone

has to fall.

For maintenance

is not

the opposite

of love.

It is love

arriving

before it becomes necessary.

— Adam Donaldson Powell