The Poet Wore Yellow

With a scarlet headband around the braids of her ancestors, and ancient, story-telling hands weaving her people, our people, into a simple, silver strand of golden sunlight. Words can do that.

Words matter. We are a nation built upon some words that were written on four pages of parchment over two hundred years ago. We are desperate to reinstall the truth in words. This is a job for poets.

I beg of our leaders, all of them, keep your poets close. Young and glowing, old and battered, sonorous or abrasive as hell, keep them all. Don’t let them wander off, distracted because you weren’t listening. You should know what it means to listen. I know you understand what happens when you truly listen.

We are the vine. We are the fig tree. We are the poet in the flaming yellow dress. We are the words with the truth stripped bare. We are youth unabridged and old age unbridled. We are the poet with golden rings woven in her hair. We are a cold day in January with hope alive.