|This is exactly what I mean. In the middle|
|of the half-acre dump, piled with broken bricks, old tires,|
|and the street sweeper’s waste, two bright sunflowers|
|stand beatified in the slant light of morning.|
|We must over and over again bear witness|
|to the wonder of this world. After the bone-rich|
|ash is shoveled from the ovens, after the scarred witnesses|
|have told their terrible tales, after the weapons have been gathered|
|and burned, someone must still have voice to sing. This|
|is the only ground we have to stand on, this|
|scorched and defiled garden. It is here we must raise|
the cry until our throats tear with the fierce hymn of praise.
Dan Lewis is a poet residing in Worcester, Massachusetts.