I climbed the stairs from the Broadway subway
to the corner of Cortland and Church Street,
into brilliant fall sunlight
and startling open space:
a four-block square, unoccupied,
unexpected in this crowded city.
I stood by the fifteen-foot fence looking
into the five-story hole, so clean and pure,
flags flying, and lifted high, the cross:
blackened steel girders we all saw on TV.
Gone was the broken glass and concrete,
the grey dust and debris from two years ago.
Amazed at hundreds of people idling to-and-fro
along the fence, I moved with them, to complete
the view from several angles, noticing others quietly
singing, taking photos, or speaking softly of loss.
The hushed scene vibrated with emotion: raw,
awesome and overwhelming.
It was like I could sense eternity,
hear voices of the many who died.
In this crowd's embrace,
tears filled my eyes, focused in hindsight
on the screaming, indiscreet
terror of that dreadful day.
Emily Robinson, February 2004
Note: This is a structure poem called Balance, where
line 1 rhymes with line 24, line 2 with line 23, etc..
