My father believed
Like his father before him
Hard work was its own reward:
Nothing worth doing came easy;
Nine counted less than the one you lost
And the clear, bright notes of your own trumpet
Were a form of noise pollution.
Of all the fears that flourished in that dusty soil
The deepest stares back from the mirror still;
But with your native music, romantic whimsy
And cheerful shrug at all tomorrows
You break the power of my ancient dread
And step into the world with easy, springing stride
Leaving behind the tattered banners
Of my own quiet rebellion.
For my daughter, who is all my greatest hopes and fondest dreams made real. I couldn’t be more proud of her. N.
Let me walk out of this dream
Into a field just touched by morning
There to find a fine horse standing
Low gold fire on his dark back.
I would approach him, hand held out
In truce. Gifts given, he would deign
To have me stroke his arching neck,
Speak softly in his all-hearing ear.
He would understand; we would be friends.
In his bulk and warmth and strength
I would lose my fears, my smallness,
Forget all other things.
He waits for me, quiet and patient
Just beyond the edge of thought.
But still the fence broods, high and solid
And I cannot find the gate.
Day is not come.
Not quite yet:
Malignancy and malice linger still.
But this is now, at last,
The hour before the dawn
And somewhere in the dark
A throng of birds begins
To sing, full-throated; and soon their song
Will ring unchecked across the land.
Then light will flood the sky
And with it we’ll forget
The night we once believed would never end.
God bless America. The thoughts and hopes of the world are with you. Thank you. And Johnson? You’re next.