Mansehra, Pakistan


This morning as I walked
I saw a curious sight: bricks
thrown by unseen hands
from a pile on the ground
to a pile on the roof, or what
perhaps would be a second floor,
of a half-built building,
each brick rising with grace
into the blue air at the top
of the compound wall, tumbling
slightly in a shortened parabola,
one after the other, to land
with a clink on the concrete above.

His body hidden behind a wall, I had
to imagine the hands
of the thrower, their clarity
of purpose, their sure goodwill
as they chose a brick, weighed
it, then lofted it high
with practiced ease.

I feel like that brick
sometimes, thrown by unseen hand –
of God, perhaps, or of my will –
to a higher plane, landing amongst
other bricks chipped from the arc
of the fall, and who can know
whether the wall we build
will be straight or crooked,
will last or crumble.