For a circle of friends
something new and good
from tobacco wasted land
organic farmers tend
to pump water and saw wood,
their community planned
as a different direction,
like daring to care
for each other's needs,
giving hugs for affection
and so persistently fair
they planted the seeeds
for a village of trust
where the past retold
is lost in mainstream,
agreeing they must
unfold and let go
their haunted dreams
of parents and lovers,
sisters and brothers,
sons and daughters
whose long-distance calls
remind them who they were
before they changed their names,
and lovely Southern drawls
remind them where they are,
away from negative claims.
So cling to a young tradition
of labor and income sharing,
that egalitarian theme
of scattered federation
whose business for profit scene
is their seasonal products push
to fill up the warehouse stalls
for a certain corporate dream
of a growing market rush
toward the not too distant falls,
while her ravaged harvest declines
from billions of moneymaking schemes
to millions of deserted malls?
Then greedily share the fat times
and care less who shares the lean,
as microbic below and cosmic above
stress in opposite directions,
who exactly are they willing to love,
all or some, a few or one, or none?
Who is open to the higher unity
that to all inspiration lends
power to change destination from
a village of vagary and vanity
an extending family of friends?

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John Talbot Ross