On March 13th of this year I read poems to and with the students of Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland to help mark the one-month anniversary of the mass shooting that happened there. It was a difficult time, with their relatives and friends in attendance, tears still flowing, on and off the stage. But even back then, deep in sorrow, the students were showing not despair, but grit; many of their poems and remarks had a firmness that belied their years. They were not just mourning: They were resolving to do something about this recurring tragedy.

And as we all know, they did do something — even shoving forward, a little, the dense boulder called the Florida Legislature — and are still doing more this summer: organizing marches and bus rides, getting other young people to register to vote, debating the NRA. They’ve rolled their sorrow and anger into a tough ball of discipline and commitment to the cause of sensible gun control, putting to shame our rubberlegged politicians and cynical NRA leaders. This isn’t a good time for America, but despite our manifold blunders and disasters, a country that can produce such mature and idealistic students can still give us hope for the future.

PARKLAND

Unspeakable violence burst out

of the hallways They could hear shouts

between the explosions—GUN!—cries

pulsing with terror their young eyes

wide with knowledge: they were about

to die alone in a bloodsoaked crowd

crawling from yet one more crazed lout

locked and loaded to exorcise

his unslakable vices…

…But now the survivors stride through clouds

of gadflies slapping aside doubt