Seven ways we become what we carry.

Seven ways of looking out.

Around the table, at grandmother’s house,

Grandfather laughs away his mother’s words.

One by one we weave

Our tapestry of life and death.

Mother singing lullabies:

“In a world filled with love,”

“God is here.”

People refuse to speak love.

Easy to blame what’s heavy on the eyelids.

Drowsiness killed the bird in the throat,

Fear turned its sweet sounds to ash.

Tell the truth:
Love is two things.

Action, unexpressed without action.

Vision, living, breathing hope.

The heart, a strong muscle, pounds relentless

It goes nowhere, chained like this.

Love should fly.

Words unsaid, please say.

Beat by blood beat

Begin to flow.

Let loose love, thunder of hearts.

Freedom is a thrice wrapped gift to carry.

Once won, a tool to use.

Hoist it high, unfurl the flag.

Banner of battle or a patchwork quilt,

Seeds of division or time spent lovingly.

Mother sewing scraps in darkness.

Thread pulled taut to keep children warm.

A thousand shades of chain link connections

A web no one can escape.

Freedom fills every hand held open,

Willing to hold another,

Careful not to let shards slip.

In a closed hand, empty, it shatters.

Broken freedom cuts like glass.

Four reflections found in rain:

The sky is not always grey.

Your face matches mine,

Four feet, forty miles, depth of sea apart.

Across, a child grieves.

This child’s tears are everyone’s tears.

Everyone cried once on this land,

Surely, as the sky weeps.

Water is shared across time and space.

Together, our voice, rushing wind.

Everyone finds themselves in other people.

Most names aren’t chosen by the named.

My name struggles to unveil blue sky.

Your name, strong as mountains where they stand.

Immense and familiar, never alone.

Your name and my name together

Blow harshly through the grass field.

Looking up into starry sky,

Vastness above, light glinting down.
For a moment,

All the world is sky.

Nothing to do but watch.
To the arc of unfathomable space,

Humans are blades of grass.

The sky has seen it all.

It’s beautiful to let go.

To feel the corners of lips scarred by sorrows lift.

In that moment connected to every person

Everyone who’s looked up like this.

Stars will outlive us.

The Earth turns, exchanging night for day.

Each revolution carves a new red mark.

Seventh scythe leaves the field bare.

Treefall turns this planet green to brown.

Oceans rich to grey.

Disaster, all too familiar.

Real warmth is not the smoke that scars the sky,

Rippling far beyond steel buildings far below.

Real warmth is found in breaking bread. Humanity leaves its mark.