And we sit together
when the evening shouts its best melody.
And we listen without expectations
because we know
the hummingbird only sings
when everyone has said their first hello.
The night breeze passing through the oak’s moss said:
“We enjoy the basic things you offer at the altar of time”.
We do not congregate behind doors
and windows of desire,
we recognize the pull of unseen hands
casting spells through the living vines.
When the wind rises around us,
it sets free the mystery of a sitting fire,
where the pot and the wooden spoons
are secretly waiting for the cycles
of a shapeshifting praised moon.
We ask little in return
when our friends do come,
perhaps a hug, a secret smile, or a friendly reminder
that we are caravan-seeking trailblazer’s folks.
The evening prayer
sang by old meditating minds
had one single motivation plan:
to bring forth a shared understanding of love
when the one and the many transform the ALL.
What is one to do but answer such a close call?
They wrote those ancient algorithms of friendship
when the sand and the hill’s rocky shores
met for the first time when the oceans roared.
In our singing, we honor those who still hear the call.
We result from a thousand cries,
a million moans, and a hundred smiles.
We drew the path of the evening starts
with the blood of a hundred melody-making hands.
The turning tide of destiny has hidden gifts
for those who endure the highest peaks
and our swampy Florida’s forest homes,
where we ask little or nothing at all.
We are secretly reaching the coconut trees
and the freedom to help others find their way home.
Our responsibility, shaded by the primordial oaks,
is powerfully suitable to the river’s turns.
Beyond contemporary politics
and the controlling dialectics of a hidden robe,
we are in harmony with the root of an extraordinary call.
These waves near our communities’ shores
immediately result from the hugs we sculpt.
For this reason, and this reason alone,
don’t hesitate to reach out, please, do come!
Like you, we are unusually homegrown.
Whatever you need is here, right here.
In every single us, in every one of them,
in our mistakes and our resolve.
We are grassroots and its momentum’s flame
sitting by the shade of our grandmas’ trees,
and the tobacco scents of old father’s leaves.
Reverence to the elders will always open doors
for our feet to push on through them all.
Come, the willows hums: “no one is truly alone.”
We are the flame and the initial spark,
the warmth of rain where the poems flow.
These doors welcomed the breeze, your breeze,
and the scented pathway of your beating drums.
Bring the guitar scales, the natives’ flutes,
the ukulele’s natural archaic joy.
The dance that eventually will set us free
has taken over our moving feet.
Come, let the waters drag you into this coming now;
we are almost out of the haze of old,
into a future filled with games and songs.
Ours is the prayer’s prayer in the poets mourn.
Come, this now is everything we truly own.
momentary synopsis 