Dear Shutterbug

The picture you gave is of a tower.

The tower is on a building

and there are columns on the front.

Its chimes are ringing

and that song its pompous bees are humming says:

the next are ripe and ready.

But what you don’t know, or what you can’t see, 

is that this picture has a frame, just as

your curiosity seeks its wisdom.

We all see knowledge. We all see heart. And we all see admission.

Admission to the world and admission to its problems

Admission to resolve and admission to the commons

Hongera.

Karibu.

The picture you took is of our soil.

I like it and so do they.

It’s true:

It frames the cracks, so pleasing,

that your eyes flow up and down like water

much like the water it’s missing.

But what you don’t know, or what you can’t see 

is that this picture has a frame, just as

your curiosity seeks wisdom, just as

your recess has an end.

Tread shallow in our muddy waters

Laugh as you learn to speak our language

Be that as it may.

But feel the love and warmth within our rust colored homes

On the concrete floors where children are born.

Do you feel it yet?

Your stay was as short as your attention.

Do you feel it yet?

What you don’t know, or what you can’t see 

is that this picture has a frame, just as

your curiosity seeks wisdom, just as

your recess has an end, just as 

your story seeks closure.

It’s at the end that you’ll find truth’s sister.

You’ll find her in your story

and you’ll learn she has always sung with sweet resolve

just like you did, when you hummed in the shadow of that beloved tower.

But our sister will sing not for the problems that will have gone

Or for the bridges that we’ll have crossed.

She’ll sing because we’ll all be here together

Eyes fixed on our toes amidst the crispy, hazel grass.

Do you see it yet?

Your stay was as short as your attention.

Do you feel it yet?

In your picture, the grass amidst your toes is weak

from the trample of children’s bare feet and the wear of donkey carts 

from the weight of the river’s water, leaping from buckets atop our mother’s head

from the rubber of running tycoons, running from their complacency

But be that as it may.

For had you turned your camera up, 

to fix your eyes with ours,

you would have seen that our eyes were gathered on the soil

the same soil upon which you stood

and from which grows the only seed of truth that matters.

Had you turned your camera up, 

to fix your eyes with ours,

you would have seen that in its roots

your numbers had no value 

and your letters had no shape.

your doubts served little purpose.

your curiosity, self-absorbed.

Had you turned your camera up

you would have heard that our words are made from sounds

and our stories made from time.

What you don’t know, or what you can’t see 

is that this picture has a frame, just as

your curiosity seeks wisdom, just as

your recess has an end, just as 

your story seeks closure, just as

your pilgrimage seeks enlightenment.

Tread shallow in our muddy waters

Laugh as you learn to speak our language.

Be that as it may.

But feel the love and warmth within our rust colored homes

On the concrete floors where children are born.

Have you felt it yet?

Your stay was as short as your attention.

Open your eyes and grow

Because you fought to start

what you couldn’t see 

when you felt it all along,

didn’t you?