From here I cannot see two oceans.
Standing astride this ridge, one foot
Touching sunset
The other, night.
On each side, cool winds taste the same.
From here I see no difference between
Factory or farm, trailer or mansion,
No hint of hand or ideology behind
The lights that in distant valleys bloom.
Thrumming roads, the tight hives of towns,
Diamond cities spilled across the dark…
All nerves flooded by two signals,
Twin prayers voiced and un-uttered.
From here I see only the twilight,
And I recall how Church
Painted Cotopaxi in the shadow
Of Civil War.
(I wrote this poem in 2004, for what was then one of the most divided elections I’s ever seen. And I’m still fairly sure Dubya stole that one as well as 2000.
I embroidered the ‘Continental Divide’ poem into this fiber and wood book sculpture.
Stay strong, people. This election is a marathon, and not a sprint.)