(By friend Caroline Donnola. Thank you)
Winter bears down on me—
I search for light.
It peeks through clouds
in soft streams
then drifts away
in broken time.
In the newspapers and on TV
the trial of the century rages on,
each side claiming the moral right
while freezing persons
search for warmth on subway cars,
while hunger of all kinds blazes on.
Nothing about this backdrop makes sense—
Dualism is a killing field
with no clear end in sight.
We search for crevices, cracks, fissures
in which to organize, rewrite and redesign.
It has been winter for humanity
for such a long time.
A few sparrows speak up
as the daylight creeps in
while indoors the dry heat
cracks our skin.
We can barely stand to be here
yet this is where we are.
Meanwhile, I keep a lookout for spring—
For the daffodils and pansies
that will sprout in urban gardens,
for the pink blossoms that radiate
on trees up and down my Brooklyn street,
and for the fruits of our activist labors
to grow and ripen and bloom
into a much-needed American Spring.
Will we even be alive if that day ever comes?
We don’t know.
We’re not in control—
I can’t even tell if this poem is done.