Allowing You To See Inside Me

195. On the pulse of a morning

A Rock, A River, A Tree 
Hosts to species long since departed, 
Mark the mastodon. 
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens 
Of their sojourn here 
On our planet floor, 
Any broad alarm of their 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 spelling 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 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 
Traveller, 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 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