The fires of difference
have never burned so long
as the Wild falls, thundering,
to waves and flames of rage,
beaches battered, along with
cities that have already, in past lives,
had to succumb to potent winds.
A Greek alphabet brings hurricanes
of change (for aren't we all tired
of burnout, tired of our collective,
hibernative sleep?) while pandemic reveals
the energy of shadows that worked stealthily
behind closed corporate, church, townhall
doors, the domination that once was
unrealized, but has now been released
upon the awareness of the masses.
the novelist writes us a new edition
of our worn out, tattered story, since
we have not the ears to listen to it
read aloud, told to us, any longer.
She - novelist, poet, creatrix - begs
her audience, her nation: please,
let me make of you a story; it can emerge
in you as a blinking face of change,
but you, dear ones, my natives, you settlers,
must help me write it, new...
Help me, please, to join together
our reflective shards of struggle
with the fire, the water, the loss and building,
the merging and fusion and amalgamation -
so that what reflects is something
we long to see