A September night on the coast of Maine.
Cold air, a canvas of it, descends with darkness
On this harbor town of sons, daughters, dreams.
And the day's despair is covered in thick salty night,
Not forgotten, but gently touched by timelessness
And something like the grace of God.
Fog doesn't hide the pain, so much
As it reminds us of its reach, its depth,
Its excruciating and human capacity to
Look toward tomorrow with humility
And weariness and even compassion.
For strangely we are all guilty of something,
Of thinking too small or spending too much
On bread that doesn't break or feed.
We all breathe the poisoned air
Of meanness sown into this American soil
By noisy slave-traders and silent believers.
There are no unblemished choices anymore,
Nothing we can do to absolve ourselves
Or save ourselves or convince generations
Of our nobility or greatness.
There is only grace, only love, only forgiveness,
A thick salty night in which to rest and dream
And receive what we have not earned.
And maybe tomorrow, in this harbor town,
Of sailor's children and lovely stowaways,
Maybe tomorrow, in this union not yet perfect,
We rise refreshed, not by our own wizardry,
Not by our own sophistication, but by darkness
Beyond our imagining and ancient autumn's turning.
Maybe tomorrow we choose kindness and love,
Justice and peace, because choosing is
The best way, even the only way to
Make all this pain mean something.
