Leaves litter our yard while I
Contemplate the chaos in the news,
Illogical random acts and words,
that seem to chip away at our fiber,
igniting the tender tinder of our collective selves.
Does the roaming coyote know about
the bombings? Do the blue jays worry
about the faith-shaken? Does the wind
cry or simply dry the tears of the bereaved?
A million leaves keep falling in the breeze.
Tricolor hues light up while media spins
political views; I walk out to the river
and gaze up the valley at the fall colors
twisting play-wistfully high in the treetops.
Within a moment I forget
how utterly fallen I felt at the news.
When the towers went down,
I was not afraid. Just like with this.
There is not fear, but sadness–and shame
for the unkind reactions of the masses
and the murderous actions of misguided men.
And the wind rustles the bay and walnut limbs,
and I move about my yard unscathed
in utter tranquility that so often is taken
for granted by the millions who raise their fists
and shout, “Revenge.”
As I turn to retreat inside, my beagle
howls and the pondering squirrel
scampers away.
Word Play 