There is a gentle hum— 

That stately, static charge amid the din;

Coursing and pulsing 

From rows of dappled clouds to salmon fins, 

To mighty seas, shooting weeds, and forests of cedar trees—

Which we did not plant. 

Full of long-remembered glory 

Awaiting its fuller flowering.  

‍

There is a silent groan—

Fathering-forth a persistent lament

At the taking of houses we did not build and fields we did not sow.

We sell the world to buy fire,

Lighted by a hunger that would exchange the gift 

For a deed turned sour. 

‍

There is a gracious Word—

That still, small voice, whispering “Yes”

Over our common inheritance:

Remember that you are a tenant, for the land is mine.

When the gift is received, 

like cool breath on silk-ash embers, 

Comes the kindling, the writhing, the sign.

‍