Vaes Bay, South Texas

Moral responsibility is grounded in the reality of our interdependence.

My soul waits for me
Somewhere
In a far, wild place
Pristine, uncorrupted
Over many mountains
Where grasses bend beneath cool winds

Who can stop the quicksilver movement of time?
As elusive as the winged seeds of an elm when the spring wind sends them fluttering
Yet as sure as the rhythmic passage of a train following its long-laid coure

The Craftsman works his frozen forge
The iron of his hatred
Is driven through to the innermost
Where his ancient voice takes root

What rending! What tearing!
What undoing and dissolution!
To dig out that unholy plant
Is to leave thoroughly crumbled earth

What child is this, with a lion’s body and the face of a man?
He lifts up his head and calls to the stars
And faintly, a far-away answer returns
As he enters the city
The dark-eyed creatures descend
Babel’s spiraling stair