Eleanor Jackson

Here, in this place, against the creek,

With its long-wet laughing water, the land remembered

That first day; the place bigger than expected, and more beautiful,

Everyone gulping great air into their lungs and not quite knowing

But hoping they knew, what it would be, how it would

Become.

They’d been to schools and halls and jobs and new rooms

Before, new places where they’d tested their mettle.

Sometimes they came up right, sometimes not. But in this place,

This place filled up with faces known and unknown,

“Hey sis” on a few lips and more, and there: the thing itself.

A beautiful deep-warm thing,

Handed from hand to another. The young ones wondered if there’d be

Some kind of papers (universities liked their papers).

And they’d moved through those places before like long, gleaming strands,

Taut strings of persistence. The sound held in and waiting.

Dreamed into the now and real, this place, this new place,

Dark sky above, nebulae swirling, gums reaching up and down,

And sanctuary, for all on the cusp of the wide open now.

This place, where they passed on this thing, this beautiful thing.

Hands brushing hands just a moment, the weight of those hands

Warm against the weight of this thing, softly sounding the elemental hum.

The young ones didn’t pester for what it was or how it got there,

Just waited, listening, words holding more than one meaning at once.

Choosing which history to repeat