by Allison Powell | Writing |

2012 - by Allison Powell

In the year 2012 I will turn fifty and the book of time cracks its own spine.

Imagining the future is the game of scientists and children rolling marbles and haven’t we all played?

The grass will be pink, skyscrapers seventeen miles high arc over the wafer of petrol blue air between Earth and Universe, Whales read our thoughts into sonnets, porcupines sing, it is possible to build a highway of dandelions.

Can you see it?
You can have it.

There is no need for money here for We have learned at last that food, medicine, books, music, and a roof courageous enough to stand firm to fire are divine rights and not to be sold.

Borders and weapons are useless as we float like airborne jellyfish from state to state and love to love.

Grace is our morning tea.

A flicker here, a swift beam there, headlights glancing off silver begin to bounce the notion around like bright shards off the disco ball of our youth.

We were drawn to swirling lights and acid colors, found comfort in hippies who draped us in the folds of their manifesto and taught us about the bigger, much bigger “picture” and in their bare feet and nonsense hair Planted the seed in us, we who are not yet tired.

A sliver people we have waited long for our turn to speak and be heard. We open our mouths and when the gold coins pour out we fling them across the roaming plains and cry out loud, “Peace has come.”

The prayer we knit solemn and silent in the long school bus or crowded classroom—a rosary said on candy beads—is answered before we are old women.