Time

Our banners are lifting: Make no mistake. We all live under a banner.

Some are covered with dark streaks of division. Some aren't scratched onto paper, but they still, quietly and insidiously and generationally, govern our actions.

Our hands are moving: The stillness and inaction of our hands is its own movement.

Some are clenched in fists. Some type 140 characters of hate. Some link together with hands of other world views, other beliefs, other pain, knowing that we are all linked together anyway in the great human chain.

Our feet are marching: Those of us who are new to this road must now be sanctuary, basins of cool water for the tired feet of those who have long traveled this terrain.

Some have walked hundreds of marched miles. Some are freshly-trodding, just forming the callouses of justice.

Our eyes are opening: Hatred, like razor edges of sand grains, has clawed its images onto our sight.

Some of us close ourselves off, not knowing that denial leads to a false peace, not seeing that there will be a time when we must choose sides, and that time is no longer a floating point on a faraway horizon.

Our hearts are shot through with the bullets of long-ago-buried slogans, of wounding words once used on another continent, in another time we've only read about.

Some of us toss blame around like a scorching coal. Some of us staunch the blood flow, all the while hoping it is just a flesh wound.

It is not. It is time: Time to listen to those who have long carried the burden of injustice and then, together, to lift our hands and feet and eyes to the truth and to carry it along with them.

 "There is a time to tear apart, and a time to sew together; a time to be quiet, and a time to speak.  There is a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace." Ecclesiastes 3