For My Country

24 01 2009

Some Tuesdays in this country.

A leaf falls waving,

            trailing, where rain

parts a day,


A new soul is

         born, it begins

a thought: stolen hope

        from a wicked witch

                    a bystander’s friction and betrayal.

Where these fractured roads split,

         is where the wheres run towards.


The sun spills, into the new dimension.


We, the oppressed

           hold a knife to our hearts

against we, the oppressors.


The America of tomorrow is a fiction.

Change and hope are just words.

The ground has shifted.


The cynics have had their say,

while spirits too frail were taken in

            and housed by the specter of the past.

Now, with joy

comes candor and diligent debate,

            colorless and insistent,

storied and statistical,

and meaning is kissed into words again.


The leaf falls to the ground.

Nothing is different.

The things that change can never be seen.

            They are believed,

                        made with weary hands,

                                    and they are listened to,

On a day like today.




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