Journal

Miller's Beginning

A poem in celebration of Independence Day 2024

The glow bar of dawn announces the day open.
Darkness peels off silhouettes, baring
The faces of the skyline towers,
All of them fixed on and softly lit by
Some distant promise, work-seekers at shore
Awaiting a boat to come in. Palm trees
Gospel sway, lonely each one, but that
They are a scattered choir is obvious
From this elevation. In the yard,
A hummingbird palpitates from one
Dew-tinted blush in the canopy
To the next. The poolhouse ceiling
Shows the infinite shudder of
Reflected water, hypnotic and assuring:
Pianos may be silenced, but light
Will play always, and look like
Joy. For just a little while, the day
Gleams unguarded like sheared silver.
To witness it is to admit the
Logic of resilience, and to feel
The height of something more than just
A city hill in the first dab of the sun.

- ZMB

 
Notes from Zoe Marie Bel

In his 1989 farewell from the Oval Office, Ronald Reagan called America a "shining city upon a hill". This was to echo across three centuries the words of John Winthrop, a Puritan lawyer and the governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, who in a sermon of 1630 said, "We shall be as a city upon a hill; the eyes of all people are upon us". It would be another 146 years before the United States of America was established, but Winthrop's definition of greatness and unity clearly had sticking power. (Even if, in his rendition, Reagan felt the need to emphasize this city on the hill was shining – not some brokeass candlestick city on a hill, no sir, not this America. This feels very... '80s. Bright lights, big city, enormous shoulder pads.)
 
Do I believe in ranking countries? Absolutely not. I say this as someone who has lived in a great many places: every country is a "shining city upon a hill" in some way or another. (And as "the eyes of all people are upon us" is also the rationale for The Real Housewives franchise, I'm similarly not convinced that the worth of something is determined by how many eyeballs it gets.)
 
But I do - oh, how I do - love America. I wrote the poem above in 2023, simply to celebrate a beautiful winter's morning in Los Angeles. Reading it back over a year later, I can't help noticing that I accidentally echoed the language of Winthrop and Reagan. On this Independence Day in 2024, with America just 248 years old (to someone born in Europe that's still diaper numbers right there), I'm willing to believe there was some higher truth in that accident. Never mind the sermonic or Presidential bombast - I don't need it. It is enough to have from time to time those moments, like the one in my poem, when the experience of American beauty, principle and companionship is shining hilltop indeed. Happy Birthday, America. (Just think... in another 100 years, you'll be out of diapers!)

 
Want to reproduce this poem somewhere else?

Please contact me first. I generally support the sharing of poetry, so chances are good I'll be receptive to your idea.

Written: January 14th, 2023 on Miller Drive, Los Angeles. Published here: July 4th, 2024. All rights reserved.