Time, Time

I remember going into the jails and prisons in the late seventies, early eighties, to teach poetry. The jailer would unlock a room filled with prisoners, tell me they'd be back in an hour, two hours, or three, depending on the agreement with the arts organization. Most of the imprisoned knew poems by heart. We'd talk, write and speak poetry, laugh and cry. I was not with the most hardened of criminals. I came to understand that most were in there because they did not have the money to hire an attorney, or they were represented poorly because they did not have the best attorney. Most were native, black, "Hispanic"(Mexican-American) and poor Euro-American. Justice does not appear to be served in this instance.

This morning I wake up and look for justice. I feel the Storykeeper whose voice tells me: "Time, time." And I have come to know Time as a being with a soul. Why is it so slow when it comes to Justice here on Earth?