One star.
Red spearpoint.
Lily, gladiolus.
Seaberry, yew.

You stitch
culture from 
whatever pieces 
you are given.

Make your world
under a star
you call a god.
Preach of it riding on 

your spear tip.
Lay flowers on 
warrior graves.
Drink acid from 

a berry,
build a bow
from a sacred tree.
Isn’t this easy?

Tell me
you can’t remake
a world given
these parts

and I will show you
a mirror and a 
smoked fish on a plate
and say: eat, coward,

grow strong on
fire, then I will show you
red and brown stone
sealed in white ice

nested in volcanic soil;
ancient seeds,
a ruptured flute,
an intact oud;

all those once enslaved, 
all those once displaced,
all those ripped from their thrones,
all those standing with fists

full of bloody skin. 
I will say: there.
There’s a new thing
to be made from these

while a song for planting
and release will be sung
by grateful millions.
You can bend to work

with them. You can 
tear your palaces apart
and offer your gems
to whatever star

you choose.  You can
bury those dead
who have longed for
comfort in good earth

knowing they have fed
new life. You can say:
here is my spear,
here is my bow,

then give them
to these now living among
lily and gladiolus,
seaberry and yew.

Lay your old tools down
under your 
demoted star’s light
and fall silent.

Those millions need not
build for you
as you did not
build for them.

Those millions
need not build
with you;
if you forget that

you become a piece
to be chosen or not
when they begin a new 
world under some

star or no star, with
your flowers
and tools,
or their own.