To you born into violence,
the wars of the red ant are nothing;
you, in the heart of the eruption.
I am speaking from immeasurable grass blades.
You, there on the rubble,
what is the river of vapor to you?
You who are helpless as small birds
downed on the ice pack.
You who are spoiled as
commercial fruit by the medfly.
To you the machine guns.
To you the semen of fire,
the birth of the maggot in the corpse.
You, to whom we send these gifts;
at the heart of light we are crushed together.
When the sun dies we will become one.
Ruth Stone, “Look to the Future” from Simplicity. Copyright © 1995 by Ruth Stone. Reprinted with the permission of Paris Press, Inc.