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ON THE PULSE
OF MORNING

    A Rock, a River, a Tree,
    Hosts to species long since departed,
    Marked the mastodon.
    The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
    Of their sojourn here
    On our planet floor.
    Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
    Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
    But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
    Come, you may stand upon my back
    And face your distant destiny,
    But seek no haven in my shadow.
    I will give you no hiding place down here.
    You, created only a little lower than
    The angels, have crouched too long in
    The bruising darkness,
    Have lain too long
    Face down in ignorance,
    Your mouths spilling words
    Armed for slaughter.
    The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
    But do not hide your face.
    Across the wall of the world,
    A River sings a beautiful song,
    Come rest here by my side.
    Each of you a bordered country,
    Delicate and strangely made, proud,
    Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
    Your armed struggles for profit
    Have left collars of waste upon
    My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
    Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
    If you will study war no more. Come,
    Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
    The Creator gave to me when I and the
    Tree and the stone were one.
    Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
    Brow and when you yet knew you still
    Knew nothing.
    The River sings and sings on.
    There is a true yearning to respond to
    The singing River and the wise Rock.
    So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
    The African and Native American, the Sioux,
    The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
    The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
    The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
    The Privileged, the Homeless, the Teacher.
    They hear. They all hear
    The speaking of the Tree.
    Today, the first and last of every Tree
    Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
    Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
    Each of you, descendant of some
    Passed-on traveler, has been paid for.
    You who gave me my first name, you
    Pawnee, Apache, and Seneca, you
    Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then,
    Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
    Other seekers—desperate for gain,
    Starving for gold.
    You the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Italian, the Scot,
    You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
    Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare,
    Praying for a dream.
    Here, root yourselves beside me.
    I am the Tree planted by the River,
    Which will not be moved.
    I the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
    I am yours—your Passages have been paid.
    Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
    For this bright morning dawning for you.
    History, despite its wrenching pain,
    Cannot be unlived, and if faced
    With courage, need not be lived again.
    Lift up your eyes upon
    The day breaking for you.
    Give birth again
    To the dream.
    Women, children, men,
    Take it into the palms of your hands.
    Mold it into the shape of your most
    Private need. Sculpt it into
    The image of your most public self.
    Lift up your hearts.
    Each new hour holds new chances
    For new beginnings.
    Do not be wedded forever
    To fear, yoked eternally
    To brutishness.
    The horizon leans forward,
    Offering you space to place new steps of change.
    Here, on the pulse of this fine day,
    You may have the courage
    To look up and out upon me, the
    Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
    No less to Midas than the mendicant.
    No less to you now than the mastodon then.
    Here on the pulse of this new day
    You may have the grace to look up, and out
    And into your sister’s eyes, into
    Your brother’s face, your country,
    And say simply,
    Very simply,
    With hope,
    Good morning.

A BRAVE AND
STARTLING TRUTH

Dedicated to the hope for peace, which lies,
sometimes hidden, in every heart
.
    We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
    Traveling through casual space
    Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
    To a destination where all signs tell us
    It is possible and imperative that we