It’s such a good
spring day here —
good birds calling,
good shoots
of green, good sights
of people on foot,
lightly dressed and smiling
as they see the good gold sun —
that it becomes
hard to believe
that it’s also spring in places
where the calling
is the sirens
of ambulances,
the people are
heavily dressed in blood,
and the sun
is somewhere behind
the smoke
from a bomb.
The sky negates
what the air whispers:
that this
could happen anywhere
and everywhere
soon.
In spite of that
I go outside
and plant a seed.
I pray it takes root
and that I live
to see it full grown,
that I live to share
its fruit someday
with someone yet
unknown to me.
On that day
may we sit and speak
of good, of green and gold,
of spring
and how it never fails.
