And it occurs to me
that the throat of sunrise
has more than a singular sermon,
that not only the red bellied woodpecker
has rights to whatever’s in earshot,
but so does the doe, albeit invisible
in her thinning winter coat, and her companions,
no longer the babies they were just a few months ago—
they, too, rustle the stubbornness of February grass
after the ice has come. They, too, lay claim
to the audibility of morning, recognizing
“there can be only one” was only a myth
started by something afraid, something
disturbed by the clamor the forest makes
when spit and breath from every tip of the compass
push stiff-necked oak and birch, blue spruce
and pine, the sycamore that somehow
survived its history, ironically in the same
direction—that this is how unity learns
to wrap its arms around a world that overlooks
morning. That doesn’t respect
plurality. Doesn't understand
honor. Doesn’t understand that
justice is another kind of love.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Copyright February 17, 2025
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
