A child asks, what is grass?
Crunch crunch gravel clicking against the shoes
Ones of old nature, barely hanging on
leaving traces of garbage behind.
Find within,
generations of fruitful Earth,
scattered memories of ago.
Look , see, smell
What are are these things?
senses of touch, leaving fire in its wake.
Making explosions across fingers, like a bomb.
Boston
Tragedy burned the land there,
charmed hearts left,
crying aching.
Will growth come again?
New life is hard to come by
growing inside, thirst for air
wanting and waiting for the sun to come.
She doesn't rise.
Neither does my mother
Bed underneath
covers overhead,
suffocated by memories
of hands striking her face,
of back against gravel,
struggle.
For now she has no struggle, just eternity.
To die, to live, as others before.
Living in the land of
Hope.
I hope to see rebirth.
You see,
it's all around,
above Earth and below,
dripping from the sky
and falling from tree-tops.
God fights for our survival
Like the child fights for answers,
But there is no answers for little words.
No comments:
Post a Comment