The Powerful Don't Make Revolutions

Troubles Cured You Salty As A Country Ham, Smoky To The Taste, Thick-skinned And Tender Inside.

I Want To Be With People Who Submerge In The Task, Who Go Into The Fields To Harvest And Work In A Row And Pass The Bags Along, Who Are Not Parlor Generals And Field Deserters But Move In A Common Rhythm When The Food Must Come In Or The Fire Be Put Out. The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

There Are Obviously A Great Many Ways To Organize Some Fraction Of The Material In A Life.

Grandmother Hannah Comes To Me At Pesach And When I Am Lighting The Sabbath Candles. The Sweet Wine In The Cup Has Her Breath.... A Little Winter No Spring Can Melt.

Praise Our Choices, Sister, For Each Doorway Open To Us Was Taken By Squads Of Fighting Women Who Paid Years Of Trouble And Struggle, Who Paid Their Wombs, Their Sleep, Their Lives That We Might Walk Through These Gates Upright. Doorways Are Sacred To Women For We Are The Doorways Of Life And We Must Choose What Comes In And What Goes Out. Freedom Is Our Real Abundance.