I believed in progress, in the basic goodness of persons.
There was a stranger within me, an intruder who was not
me, yet part of me, who swallowed as I drank.
I've lived as if it will die when I die.
I now begin to see that my 'stranger'
inside me is the sharpie fine-pointed pen
"I" wrote with, but really is a life force who lead,
encouraged, lifted me through my nights.
This is not mythic: it is here now. I pass
out of history: this continues. While I live
I am steward, mechanic, actor, helper.
I matter; my actions matter; my thoughts matter.
In my ending my beginning is organized into this
great matter. Peace is a place in every breath.
We need to utter it ‘now’ while we can.
We didn't invent ourselves nor get it off the grass
way back down that long winding longing line.
We have been seeking to be a people from the
beginning of our supposed origins. Will we end
before we have exploded and regrouping merged?
Staying home doesn’t mean some kind of surrender.
New definitions for older versions are visions bound in blood
. Toil can re-make the rainbow to re-arc the bridge hope.