It’s with the stillness that comes when some great leader dies:
The way that you feel their soul give the Earth one last whirlwind tour,
And as they pass, they reach their ghostly hand out to you,
Leaving one last memento for you,
One last impression, a thumbprint on your soul.
This is something not to be taken lightly.

For these thumbprints, minute indentations,
Covering every inch of your indestructible spirit,
These are what shape you, mold you into
What You Are, and How You Should Be.

Myself, I treasure these thumbprints,
I cradle them beneath my sternum,
And I listen closely to the whispers their owners left with them.
Martin Luther King and Mahatma Gandhi,
Mother Teresa and Victor Jara,
They guide me.

Though they could break my bones, my heart,
Detach these voices; tear them away from my hollow body,
I dream of a day when I might leave my own thumbprint on another’s soul.
When I will guide another;
When I can show them that peace is possible,
And despite the stillness, they must speak up.

Entry for the Barbara Mandigo Kelly Peace Poetry Award.
29 June 2009, 12.14