The Great Divide

As the Mississippi River slices, sometimes a mile wide,

through the green fields of our southern states,

or the upheaval of the Rocky Mountains,

higher and more crevassed than

the Appalachians to the east or the Sierras

to the west, scar the plains,

we hope.


Just as the Pacific currents swirl

to unfathomable depths, the voids off the continent’s shores

teem with life unknown.  While above, lightning bolts

split the spacious Montana sky, and rains

pound rivulets in the already furrowed farmlands

where the amber grains will again wave in spring,

we hope and are thankful.


Just as the feeling of disconnection

polarizes our people–people, not unlike

the Wampanoag and those Puritan immigrants,

who all wanted something better for themselves,

their children, their neighbors–but perhaps

have forgotten because of the distance forged by words,

that our histories and our futures are bound

inextricably together,

we hope and give thanks and pray.



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