It was here that I learned to know the beauty of a pen.
The river calling out my name, the way hope might
catapult my heart from one tree to the next, here
in this city, lined with leaves like wings that flutter
in the wind, a canopy of oaks, cottonwoods, sycamores,
and willows carrying sacred names from all the years before.

Ina Coolbrith, literary jewel, our Golden State queen, our first poet
laureate with words of bright and sudden stars, we're here today,
still in love with you for all you were and are, 100 years ago—
The Mariposa Lily and a symphony of meadowlarks, a melancholic
longing yet lives and breathes again and again and again. October 31st
1925, one lasting photo, in black and white, our founders staring
through a camera's lens, we honor you today. Your light eternal,
ever lit with us, enduring flares that glimmer through the years.

Edna Becsey, our first president extraordinaire, because of you,
I stand with those who spill their stories on the page, your vision
that's endured a century and more past Calvin Coolidge,
T-strap heels and Mary Janes, your portrait in Jack London's chair,
if you could only join us as we raise our glass in gratitude, thank you
for this gift we share no matter gender or race—
Sacramento, our place for breathing in and out. Each day, as you
and you and you, write words that linger far beyond death or dying,
every hour, as more time passes, our worn-out shoes upon
a flowered floor, as we're walking towards whatever door awaits
for each of us. We will read and write like songbirds soaring through
a weary sky, past clouds obscuring light, in search of laughter,
tears, and pain. Because we must explain this rhythmed pulse
inside that pulls away, each story freed within the body's frame.

There is no holding back what must be said when the heart
is fuller than a prayer, and yet it's like religion filling up the soul,
so blazing hot, it burns the hand that carves its breath, a quest
that spurs a tingling in the throat. Come here. Come here
and listen, listen to how gladness turns to grief then back again,
yet carries with it something that remains, savored, saved, unspoken
in the mind. I will tell you all I know of life and death, my countless
sorrows, or rose-filled days. As if an artist never dies but only
takes a pause, then passes through another, all the way from paradise.

There's only immortality when what we write lives on, our bonds
that tie us like a promise etched forever in a sapling's woody stalk.
It was over 20 years ago my mother died. One night, I heard
her call my name across a thousand skies that cried.
A peaceful distant voice, yet it traveled to my room and soon
I was there, beside her, tubes and rails, a prisoner of her disease—
I kneeled by her bedside, my palm resting soundlessly in hers,
soft fingers barely warm and opened as if waiting for the hand of God.

And when her eyes had closed one final time, I turned away
and saw the handle of her drawer half-shut, the one
nearest to her bed, where I found a poem of mine long tucked
away and neatly folded; a poem she'd saved and read and read.
One I'd written as a child, resting there as if she knew someday
I might begin to write again. Thank you. I want to say, thank you,
mother, for this life of imagination, for the skill of incarnation,
personification, for the muse's inspiration, or being a witness
to the power of beauty, love, and grace, an authenticating observer,
to be the epitome of empathy and mirth.

Thank you for your courage in giving birth, and thank you
Sacramento, our mother city, where we were born, writer
to writer, artist to artist— where I shut my eyes to darkness
and the dimness becomes a vision of possibilities.
Where all I dream gallops outside the haunting spine
of tomorrow and lands on the wing of a shadow, buoyant
and full of illusions, true and untrue, both quiet as a whisper
and loud as a scream, echoing like a church bell's ring
honoring a lifetime's breadth. Oh, remember us— as lovers
of the arts for all that's beautiful and even dreadful in the world,
for our willingness to write it down, to share our indebtedness
to those who've come before, brilliant as the golden poppies
unfurled beneath the California sun and in another hundred
years may we celebrate once more, each to each, our love
of literature, still writing, writing, writing— our stories nearly done.