so that when you trace its shape
with your finger,
you end up where you started. It's one. It's whole.
All the dotted lines we draw on our maps
of this globe are just that, dotted lines.
They smear easily.
Oceans can be crossed.
Even the desert can be crossed.
The grain that grows on one side of the border
tastes just as good as the grain on the other side.
Moreover, bread made from rice is just as nourishing
to body and spirit as bread made from corn,
or spelt or teff or wheat or barley.
There is no superior land, no chosen site,
no divine destiny falling on any one nation
who draws those dotted lines just so.
There is only one earth we all share,
we, the living, with all else that lives
and does not live.
everything, for good or ill,
is part of the shared whole:
sky, earth, song, words and now, this silence.