Are we ripe enough yet
to fall from the Tree
and in dying send our hopes
ahead of where we lie?
Are we yet mad enough
to join others we have never known,
spoon with them and recognize
common ground to hold?
Are we steel enough yet
to accept that when we fall we will rust,
but it will be a slow rusting
and in the meantime we can be used to carve?
Are we sane enough yet to accept
that action leads to reaction,
that when we act we invite reaction,
and knowing that, act anyway?
Comes a revolution. We will fall.
Comes a harvest, we will be discarded
separately, left for fuel for the next crop.
Our present to be made future, our past
to be made now — are we yet ready to die
for the right to believe that a death
may be worth dying? Are we steel-sane,
mad-ripe for that now? If we are,
we should whisper it or shout it or even
say nothing at all as we step to it. If we are ready
then none should see fear in us — or if they do
let it be only for a moment as we ripen to the full.