There is a structure, built on paper and time, A set of agreements we call bylaws, Our inner workings, the rhythm of our days, How we meet, how we vote, the small print of belonging. But above this neatly stacked set, Stands something taller, something older, The federal sun, the state statute light, Laws woven into the very fabric of this place, this nation. The bylaws whisper their little commands, Defining the quorum, setting the notice period, But if those whispers contradict the shout of the state code, The whisper dissolves. Silence takes its place. The Articles of Incorporation, The foundational breath, the very first commitment,They hold a higher authority still, The DNA of our purpose, immutable save by due, formal ascent. If a small rule, say, regarding the color of the banner, Is found wanting, a legal flaw, A tiny crack in the polished floorboard, It doesn't mean the whole house tumbles. The illegal clause, the unenforceable sentence, Is lifted out, a dead leaf from a living branch, The rest of the document breathes on, whole, The structure remains, though one small weakness is exposed. And then there is the quick temptation, The sudden need for speed, the emergency flare, The cry for "Suspension of the Rules!" A bypass switch, a momentary shortcut through the maze. The bylaws hold their breath when this request is made, They are the steady map, the agreed upon path. Suspension is a conscious choice, a deliberate swerve, A majority agreeing, for this one moment only, To step lightly off the established track. It is a temporary lifting, a vacation granted, Not a rewriting of the core text. The law of the land does not suspend itself for convenience, Nor do the Articles take an unscheduled recess. The bylaw says, "Three weeks notice required for a motion." The urgency screams, "We need a vote by sundown!" To suspend the rule is to acknowledge its existence, To honor the structure even as you momentarily hold your breath above it. It is the difference between editing the constitution And suspending the standing order for a single, pressing vote. One is demolition, the other is careful choreography. The external law, the bedrock laws, they do not negotiate.They are the unmoving mountains against which all our local maps are drawn. Our internal compacts, our beloved bylaws, Are but tributaries flowing toward that vast, unchangeable sea. We must check the flow constantly,Lest our small currents forget the ocean's pull, Lest we build our meeting hallsonsand that the higher tide willreclaim.Theframework must honor thefoundation,always.The law is the air we breathe, even in our most private rooms. There is a structure, built on paper and time, A set of agreements we call bylaws, Our inner workings, the rhythm of our days, How we meet, how we vote, the small print of belonging. But above this neatly stacked set, Stands something taller, something older, The federal sun, the state statute Everywhe They're everywhere

Death