sun and softness and …
beaten hardness of the earth
song of all sun-stars

Adapted from:

Sun Song

by Langston Hughes

Sun and softness,
Sun and the beaten hardness of the earth,
Sun and the song of all the sun-stars
Gathered together —
Dark ones of Africa,
I bring you my songs
To sing on the Georgia roads.

As published in The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes (New York, Knopf, 1994).

My grand daughter called last night.

She had an assignment in class to interview someone who was alive on 9/11/2001.

She had 11 questions to ask; where was I, what was I doing, how did it change my day?

I worked in the TV News business so I was watching TV at work when the 2nd plane hit.

I spent the rest of the day working to provide coverage online of what was going on in New York and in Washington and the rest of the world.

The last question my grand daughter asked was how has life changed since 9/11?

Less safe.

Less trusting.

Less.

Driving to work this morning, the interview and 9/11 was on my mind.

It struck me that as I drove over the bridges to an island on the coast, that 24 years ago at this very minute, the sun was rising out of the Atlantic Ocean.

People were getting up, starting their day, safe and sound.

The events of the day were already in motion.

Coming up over the curve of the earth like a wall of clouds on the horizon at sunrise.

In the next 24 hours the tide would come in and out two times.

And the sun would be coming up again.

The tide and the sun the same with the softness of the sun and the beaten hardness of the earth.

But the world would be different place.

It would be less.

Sunrise on 9/11
—in the manner of Langston Hughes

The sky broke open,
not with fire,
but with gold.
September’s hush,
a whisper low,
before the sirens told.

Steel and sun,
stood side by side,
in morning’s proud parade—
no hint yet of the ash to come,
no shadow on the blade.

O Harlem,
O Brooklyn streets,
O sleeping Bronx and Queens—
the city stirred with coffee dreams,
and soft machines.

Children laughed.
Mothers prayed.
Builders raised the day.
Dreamers climbed their towered hopes
the American way.

But somewhere deep,
in silence coiled,
a storm prepared to rise—
and blue turned black,
and joy cracked loud
against the stinging skies.

Yet still, that sun,
it rose again—
above the smoke and cries.
And still it burns
in every soul
that dares to hope and rise.

Let morning break—
not just with light,
but with a voice that sings:
“We lived. We wept.
We stood. We fight—
for better, braver things.”