Lost in the human condition,
and told it’s all we have.
Fortressed against the future,
in anxieties wide as the sea.

Stop! in your roots. Turn the flywheel
over its backside in groaning reversal;
with effort that grows, the turning now flows—
a singing, the pitch ascends and gathers

chords to its own, strains that come from us all.
From ignorant places we crawl, then on a knee,
full up in the wind clarion clear that blows
through the whole of the past, not repeating now,

Rounding all in a new embrace, including the coming.
No, for the coming—our sisters and brothers revealed
in the strange, the ugly, the wrong, in loss, for now the waited
turning point is here, and the very shout of the foe,

beneath its raucous chill, is caught by a deeper will we feel
comes both through us and those, no longer foes, bewildered now
in shuddering communion—throes of conflict go, a ros-
iness, a glow. We know, though slow, we’ll grow . . . wholly whole.


  Ronald Jorgensen
13 November 2004
© Ronald Jorgensen

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