|Judean hills, photo David Shankbone|
Two messages of hope just trickled in
like icicles’ first melt in Spring. Of course,
it’s much later than that right now, maybe
too late for survival, but still there’s time
for years of peace before the Fire, the Flood,
the ramifications of Not Talking.
Hope poetry—the messenger ravens
of our age—blessed me with peaceful recall
and long sight from the hill and tree tops that
stand. Two poems blast me for giving up my walks,
insulating myself with just one window
open to read what still compels goodness:
Interactive compositions in grey,
and green and blue still unite me and you.
(April is International Poetry Month.)
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.