That someone might say of me, as they said of you,
That your poetry was a flag of allegiance to goodness,
Would be an act of love and death, a validation of truth,
an opening of soul: that piece of silver that, sliver-like,
shines in the deep dark of my revolution.
I always held a candle for your comfort and wild, torrid arts;
yet when the dark engulfed the green, the only light
was the one you shone onto my page all those years ago,
catching fire to it, burning the book from my hands
like you were some bush god speaking.
Pushing your beauty aside, only your anger and your
righteous banners remain. I remember to embed myself
in new life, following her baby love like a grizzled tracker.
She takes me deep into the forest, holds up her hands
for me to walk her through the fire and up and down the hill.
She is a baby of revolution, a baby of the future,
a baby of glimmering forest light and fluttering banners:
born into moonlight,born into goodness and destruction.
I fight for her and sing for her and walk with her;
whisper her comforts in the dappled forest night.
And so these poems are to you and the small child
whose life is growing. She is soothed by them, you are fired up
and carry them onto burning streets. I fear for you, my darling,
my wonder, my life. I fear for her and for my soul; yet I will write
these poems, and goodness will make it all seem worthwhile.