The last place the Ohlone danced
Was here
Where I work every day.
Ninety-nine years ago:
All but forgotten now.
Were they noble or perfect?
No.
Can I be one with them in the murky transformation of poetry?
No.
Would I be one if I could?
Probably not.
But for at least a thousand years
They gardened this earth,
Their sister,
In peace and wisdom.
And we to war every thirty years
Pave and rumble over it unheeding.
Is it too much to hope
That we could listen and learn
And take small steps from the addictions of exploitation?
I can not be my Ohlone brothers and sisters.
I can not unmake the reeking monuments of my ancestors.
I seem even unable to forbear my participation in the onslaught of progress.
But I can hear their story
     Unweeping,
     Unguilty,
     Unadoring,
And as their equal
Honor their vision
And gentle stewardship
Of this, our common land.