Homeland Security
We stand on the razor's edge, balanced on a blade
That, should we slip, will slice us sharply apart
Though how the pieces may separate cannot be known
Without defining the exact trajectory of the fall,
Where the cut will split the body apart.
A shade stalks the homeland,
Dims the mid-day light (no longer morning;
Morning was lost to wars, its innocence drowned
By bloodied bullets in rice paddies and motorcades,
Airplanes repurposed as torpedoes).
This land is neither father nor mother; it stands
As both, as home, a geography held safe for growth,
Rolling green and golden, rising, rivered and riven,
Shaping our gods and our prayers, never seamlessly,
But ever with hope and dream and faith. As was.
Today we stand on the razor's edge, surrounded by mud:
We can in lost balance fall into the mire, lose ourselves,
Overcome... or we can reach down--steady, steady--
And grasp it, find the rich clay within and mold it,
Bring artful form from oozing muck.
Balanced on the edge of a sword,
inside a moment of choice:
To cringe inside the shadow of winter night?
To stride out into summer's early afternoon light?
To fear? Or to persevere?
S.V. Lowery
7 November 2016
No comments:
Post a Comment