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 more 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 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.
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