Outraged at articles portraying stark realities of Venezuelan
immigrants among others, desperate to depart the dearest
countries of their birth, as our ancestors did, once
upon a not too distant time;

Freedom is what we all long for, not the liberties seized
by the conquerors; simply instead the freedom to authentically
make our way in the world, to whet our creative spirits
on the grindstone of progress, yet a stone which is cleanly
cleaved and has not yet gathered moss;

Freedom I tasted as a small child, balance beaming
along the sides of our small catamaran up to the bow, grabbing
the cleats tight and bouncing with the wake waves,
dragging my long tanned arms as they cut through the arced wall
of luminous green blue water like liquid glass, watching as it curved
away from the hull; the mist, the salty taste, the sea, the open sky;

And then there was the time the coast guard stopped all that,
not safe they said, get back into the boat, take a seat,
end your childhood right there and then, do again
what you have been faithfully attending to every day
in school when all a body longed for was anything
but slumping and staring at chalk-powdered blackboards,
and I loved learning but not in that stilted rote way, bound
and virtually gagged as a woman lashed to a stake
and burned for her unquenchable thirst for knowledge;

Experiencing the feel of flat green petiole flesh
of giant redwoods and Douglas conifers or rolling the round
powdery bluish needles of the spruce between fingers - texture
of bark and long pine needles under foot, the pungent forest
perfume - we are all travelers on this extraordinary journey,
all children of Creation, all One with the four leggeds and two,
the birds, the squirrels, all of them, all of life;

And I wonder who ever noticed small snakes slithering
under the border wall, migrating hummingbirds freely zooming
through the saguaros of the Sonoran desert, and who are we,
the self important, secure in our bank financed homes,
who are we to direct the course of events for those souls
fleeing conditions our greedy nations have shaped
through hoarding resources meant for all to enjoy
and then warring for more until the land yields
not so much as a verdant blade;

The green green Colorado River we fished in as kids,
pulling steelhead trout into the boat or up onto the banks,
unmarred by mountains of rubbish tossed aside in a nation
of plenty who dares to slam the gates in the faces
of the faceless; this river is meant to flow on and into Mexico
but there is nothing left but dust to drink, and those in power care
only for the cool shade of living off another's resources,
the precious waters, the stolen lands, and will we ever understand
that no one, not any of us, owns the earth?

"Ghost" ~ James Lavadour