by Carole Boston Weatherford
An ancestral spring rises in us
as we scale a mountain to cast this vote;
a stream once dammed up beyond possibility,
now liquid and electric in our veins.
A river of tears greets the news
that’s been generations coming,
and we wonder, “Is this like Jubilee?”
The movement cradled by a dream
is now a wave. We are surfing toward
when the tide of tomorrow
carries millions more like us—multitudes
cresting in a sea of hope and humanity,
a second coming—to a hallowed shore.
As Lincoln overlooks the reflecting pond,
we know that we stand on promises.
Ghosts wade into the Mississippi.
Surely, America has been baptized.