I don’t write about the war, much:
when it broke out, it felt as though
Europe were my body, and a crocodile
had torn off one of my limbs, left it severed
and was feasting on its gore
in parody of glory.
I don’t write about the war, as such:
I’ve thought about red buttons,
Hiroshima shadows on concrete steps,
waved at my own, then reprimanded
my own melancholy.
I don’t write about the war, within
the one we all fight:
hand over heart, and inner darkness over inner light
balancing chemicals and hormones
impact on the outer world.
I don’t write about the war,
and it’s not because I do not care:
If I thought writing about the war would end it
I would never stop writing. If I thought writing about the war
could stop the war to end all wars,
my ink would run dry in its bleeding.
I don’t write about the war
we have declared upon our home, this earth
which stems from war with our humanity:
why walk, when we can drive the car?
Why spread love, when we can so easily
I don’t write about the war:
I write about birdsong, here in my bower
of bliss, I waken every morning
it surrounds me, like the blossom
gentle spring rain, softly falling
carpet of petals, soothing balm
This perfume-scented, lulled forgetfulness
tries earth’s overstretched capacity for forgiveness.
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Written for earthweal
This week, Sherry, in her Everwild challenge, has asked us to:
write from that place of holding onto wildness of soul, to balance the wild love and wild grief we swing between on any given day, at this time of utter unpredictability, when Mother Earth herself is providing us with comfort in our grief, even while she herself is bleeding.