Photo by Jérôme Prax on Unsplash
Peace, Peace will Come
It is often
easier to write
the landscape
without the pollution
of people.
This hillside
was once
wild with color
Can you
imagine it?
Today, the violets
that took residence
in the shell casings
bloomed—
fashioning
flower pots
from the detritus
of war.
Can you
picture it?
This earth
will not pause
for our passing—
wind witnessing
that last
murder-suicide
with a sigh
of relief.
Minor Losses
I walk past his house
most days.
A pretty Cape
painted sky-blue.
He taught
at the college,
but was devoted
to his lawn.
Over the years
I watched
as he tried every
new remedy
for crabgrass.
I used to joke
that he only need
wait for winter.
We lost three
this month
in our aging
neighborhood.
Each got 200 words
and an unflattering
picture in the daily
no one gets delivered
anymore. Then
a few turns round
the sun for even
their echoes to vanish.