An elegy for Jimmy Carter, Jr.
Goodbye, fierce and gentle warrior,
farmer with your hands full
of good soil. You grew things.
You made your choices for weal and woe,
held your power loosely, let it go;
asked nothing of others
you asked not of yourself.
In extraordinary times, you were an ordinary man —
not a hero, not a saint, not a role model.
You looked into our eyes and told the truth
as best you understood it. We did not listen.
We wanted fairy tales of false greatness,
glib promises of never-ending good times,
eternal morning in a land immune to night —
Lies, all, and so you warned us.
But comforting calumny is easier to hear
than stony fact. We turned away
to worship at their shiny altars
these gods of glory, greed, and gore.
You wavered not an inch from your convictions,
smile undimmed by public humiliation;
you went back to planting crops
in fields where no one else thought they could grow:
Peace in bloodied ground,
homes in urban lots,
love stretched like a wedding canopy
over time and patience and simple faith.
Do not despair.
The fields you plowed still wait their harvest.
See, even now they bear your quiet fruit.
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