Heart of Whimsy !

The season of darkness has expired; Now Nature wakes, no longer tired. Life emerges from the land— God’s greening grace is close at hand. Not only do the verdant hues Reveal such hopeful, splendid views, But amarillo and ruby cups Invite the bee and fill them up. Soon—yes, very, very soon— Exotic scents will sweeten May, As lilacs take my breath away. A child when first their bloom I met, So sweet, they must be Heaven-scent I’d steal a bloom with fingers gloved, A gift for the mother I dearly loved. But fleeting is their purple breath, A fragile gift that flirts with death. The winds may steal what springtime grows, And raindrops bruise each tender rose. So while they bloom, I pause and see— This lilac grace is lent, not free.

They crossed the border, yes— Illegally, some say, As if desperation had time To fill out forms. “They have no right to be here,” You declare, As if the land had always been yours, As if your ancestors asked permission. Anchor babies, You spit— Little brown children Born breathing freedom You want to deny them. “They live on our charity,” You claim, While fields are picked, Homes are cleaned, And taxes paid in silence. But it’s not about borders. White immigrants pass through the gate With smiles and handshakes. No one asks for papers When they blend in. This is our country, You shout. But whose country? Yours by skin? By fear? By the comfort of sameness? The shame is not theirs. It is ours. And it has no accent— Only a mirror.

We don’t all pray in the same church, but we all wait in the same checkout lines, glancing at gum racks and tabloid lies, half-watching the kid with the runny nose and the old man counting nickels. We don’t all vote the same, but we all curse at traffic lights, get cut off by the same kind of jerk in the same kind of hurry. Then we go home and try not to lose our temper at someone we love. We don’t all eat the same food, but we all sit in waiting rooms, staring at worn-out magazines, pretending not to worry as our name creeps closer to the nurse’s clipboard. We raise flags for different reasons, but we all stand quiet when someone folds one and hands it to a widow. We teach our kids different songs, but they all cry the first time they see something die and ask if it hurts. We build our fences, paint our houses, make what peace we can between the news and the night. And when it’s done— when the breath leaves and the hands fall still— we don’t ask ...

I’ve walked through decades, felt the world evolve, Seen borders shift and towers rise and fall. Though time keeps posing riddles I can’t solve, I still can hear the conscience of it all. They say I’m dated—out of step, behind— But I have read the past and seen it burn. The world’s not kind, but I have trained my mind To judge the tides and know which winds to turn. I love this land, though leaders make me ache, Their bluster staining all we claim to be. Still, in the youth, I feel the earth awake— Their future’s flame might finally set us free. I’m not yet done; I’ve still a voice to lend. God willing, I will fight until the end.

  Camp Tom Welch We met at the Boys Club, luggage in hand, city boys bound for that promised land. Ten years of summers, seven weeks long— each one beginning with a bus ride and song. The ride was a racket of chatter and kicks, til the city gave way to trees and sticks. Then roll call barked out through the warm, dusty air, as counselors herded us here and there. Steel bunks awaited with spring nets wide, thin mattresses curling just slightly on the sides. We claimed our spots, made beds in a heap, and learned which guys talked loud in their sleep. The pool was blue and the water cold— first swim in June never got old. Lunch meant hot dogs, always with beans, on plastic plates that stayed mostly clean. Rest hour meant comics, quiet and still— though some cracked jokes and never could chill. Canteen followed, a rush to the stand— sweet treats and sodas in sweaty hands. We raised the flag as the bugle blew, then lowered it later in twilight’s hue. Swim le...