Actually begun on the bus.
Night sky slowly turns to blue.
We can be sure that the sun will rise.
The growing light is not our job.
So I can relax and write a poem/
With each mile,
We see the trees clearer and greener.
The trees stand out in the morning fog
in the mountain valleys.
The trees stand at attention
with a motionless salute as we pass.
Any road to change requires listening
and steady work.
Change requires the active patience of a tree.
Dawn is breaking,
but the day has mot come.
We listened fifty tears ago when Martin Luther King said,
“I have a dream ...”
So we go again to Washington to march.
The trees are marching, too.
Fifty years is not a long tome for an oak.
The fields are still green and growing.
They need no guidance
to rise from the ground.
The fields and trees of social justice
are watered by our sweat:
many years, many tears
In season, the harvest will come.
When Dr. King told us,
“I have a dream ...”
Was he sleeping? No!
He was very wide awake.
He spoke as a prophet,
When we heed his wake-up call.
We are his dream.
Together,
We are dream.
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