Social Justice

Haul wood,
chop water.
Do the hard work of 
reversal.

How far
there is to go,
how futile the effort
seems to be.

The wood yet to be moved
doesn’t diminish.
The water refuses
to stay split. 

Maybe it’s best
to return to 
the desert where
there’s little of either.

Once there, though, visible
beyond the dry horizon
are the forests
and now and then, the rain.

Stand outside 
and go through
the motions: swinging,
preparing to clutch.

Become a readiness,
a consciousness: 
a hauler of weight,
a cleaver of flood. 

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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