A nation may be reborn
out of flame and darkness,
broken glass, death, ignorance,
blood, beaten and broken bones.
The trial and terror of birth –
its unknown face
weak and trembling
shouts in the corridor.
Birth tears an opening
out of which it comes.
It wounds forever
what came before –
history, tradition, belief.
What comes cannot return
from whence it came.
The child of birth cries
comes, cresting before our eyes.
Scream if you must.
Healing, salve, balm –
chrism poured over a living being
beginning to stand, flex, stretch.
Let it come. Let it be.
Portland, Oregon – June 9, 2020
As I write, America is in a raging and justifiable turmoil. We do not know what will come of it. I have hope. I am given hope by what I see on the streets of America.