Dear Eugene, The sun is brilliant today, best time of year, not too hot, not too cold, not too anything , a good life hangs finely in the balance of a myriad of capricious elements, mostly hidden, many I won't even come to identify let alone make sense of before my little life ends. Two mornings ago I read in the news that a suicide bomber attacked a voter registration center in Afghanistan, killing 31 people. Yesterday morning the headline was gone, and I had to search online to see the casualty was then more than doubled. If I didn't quickly scan the headlines Sunday morning I would not even know something like this had happened, like the registering voters knew not a bomb was in their midst, and by the time they knew for sure there would be no point in knowing, let alone trying to make sense of the blast or piecing smithereens back together. A line was drawn to divide before and after, life and death, hope and despair; a line that gives and takes away the meaning of
ReplyDeleteA leaf unfurls, a page unscrolls
Green sheath of promise
In diaries foretold
Vein on branched sinew
Strikes a day, taunts the night
Lean is Spring without dew
Hands from throne to clay
Know no strangers or bounds
In holes they clasp to pray