I’d rather not mirror today’s world in a poem
turning as it does toward fascism and genocide.
Instead, I’ll reflect the here and now, a picture-
perfect landscape that keeps me anchored.
Home is a tree-surrounded haven. We hear muted
traffic roaring beyond the trees, but crickets and
bird calls are louder. We see planes pass over
now and then. We eat, chat, and feed our souls.
Those of us who read the news spend extra time
with the trees. We cannot swallow the killing
in Gaza, the chaos of ICE here. We cannot
stomach the destruction of a sustainable future.
Some go out to rally with home-made signs: Honk-
if-you stand-for-democracy, Save-social-security,
No-Kings, Bring-home-the-hostages, Keep-our-buses-
running, and more. We study non-violent action.
We know our idyllic anchor is vulnerable. We know
it's not the only one. Our poems smell of horrors,
fear, and responsibility. They reach far for hope.
At home, we rest and age while praying for sanity.
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