The Ground is Breaking, We Broke It

When I say we I am referring to our hands,
soil-deep, rainbow fingers locked like promises,
waiting out the latest deluge, the newest fire.

Trees talk, famously, every day. Language of roots,
centuries of survival in their palms. This is true
of paper as well. And if paper, also books;

thinly sliced heartbeats bound into a song. No one
can fetter the mouth of a tree, it sings from its hands.
Remember when everything was burning or drowning

or cork-stopped, and the most important parts of us
lived—we lived—or how we became a forest of books,
banned together, and we sang & we sang & we sang?

When I say we I mean our song comes from our hands.
When I say hands I mean look what our voices can build.

Junious ‘Jay’ Ward
Poet Laureate of Charlotte, NC

February 7, 2025