by Mona Shaw
On that softened swell of summer day
when sun and soil engage
to marry the gold to the marigolds
and your fancy to your fate.
You breathe in all its beckoned blues,
and your eyes are filled with days,
and days to harvest glory
from a green and grace-stemmed stage.
I want to change the world.
Did an up-breeze sweet-talk a down-stream whim,
or the grass write it on your feet?
Did a thread of Then wind its way to When
and sing triumph to your grief?
When your hands are pink and plumped with young,
does it always seem
you have strength and time enough
to homestead any dream?
I will change the world.
A welcome wing of rain falls short
of time and what goes wrong.
An acre of heartaches founders
for every row that's won.
You battle on through losing
while your heart and back stay strong.
But, who knew planting would be so hard,
and faith would take so long?
I still might change the world.
Like a Trailways bus on a twilight binge,
chances pull away.
Your seeds lie fallow, but your failures sprout.
They ask questions the “right” way.
Did you bring enough water? Did you insult the sun?
Whose child did you fail to save?
Death divulges the dreams you won't make
come true on this or any day.
I can't change the world.
Then someone younger who still believes harvest comes
hauls a basket into the wind.
You rise to help because now you know
there is no quo pro quid.
"We won't change the world," you whisper,
then she lifts the basket lid.
The hearts inside bear your fingerprints.
"But look," she says, "You did."
