These whose trespass by dreaming to build a sky wide enough to hold up time and daughters in the sun press sides and backs together to make trees of a common reach. For water, for their sons, as the sun goes dark. Not to be moved, they are plowed, knocked down, shot, and mocked; they bleed from the sides of them, but the rhizome threads reveal themselves now a vast below, to hold. Here is the same sky that turned dark when guards at the first turning murdered the liberator for trespass of healing touch, for refusal to stone them, for exiling none but the moneychangers in the temple, whose blood fell and still falls into this earth, who told the woman on the road of sorrows to save their tears for the children––who are these, dusty feet in the earth seeded with the rising dead pressing hands into the wound of an ancient promise.
Whew! Well-done, Stacey.
Ray. Thank you for being here, friend.