The ground shakes
The mountains tremble
But the little wooden box
Doesn’t move at all

It sits rooted
Never moving
As I slip and fall
On the rocky ground

The earth finally quiets
The rolling hills stop
My fingers are nervous
As I open up the box

Coated with dust
It makes my fingers gritty
But the wooden box lid
Doesn’t squeak at all

Sitting sentry in the box
Is grandfather’s journal
And his worn
Leather bound Bible.

But now duck tape
Covers the spine and
Holds the bookmarks in
For papa always said

‘A bible that is
Falling apart
Often belongs to a
Person that isn’t’

I take it out
And cradle it in
My arms, pulling back
The string to see the pages

Fragile between my fingers
Yellowed with age
Many passages are underlined
Or highlighted

The words swirl
Around me and the pages scatter
As the aftershock hits and
I land on a soft bed of

Psalms.