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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