Promise, a poem

PROMISE

Ceasar Chavez / so and how does this mean that there
is an end or that anything is different? We still
have a promise to keep. We still have work to
do. Our father who art finally away from disaster,
out of the grip of that hand that wants to shape
everything, to twist everything, that hand
that crushes the flowers into a lingering
fragrance, and that thinks to make
men into mud again. I
would like to tell you
that the
children will live. I would like to tell you
that the children will be happy and in love
with life again and in love with themselves.

It is the last promise
I will make.
They will live.
On my blood.

And no hand
will cover their mouths again,
and the air will be clean,
and their eyes will be open,

and their mouths
will be unstuck,
and their ears
unstopped.

I think I can make this promise.
What life would be worth living
unless we make this promise?

You can sleep now.
You can dream now.
But dreaming, you still have work to do:
Will you dream us?

And we will leave the door open
on those hot evenings in the Valley,
and while we sleep, you can always
walk in again. Tim Fitzmaurice 4/27/93
(Cesar Chavez 31 March 1927-23 April 1993)