Unusually Homegrown

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.

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