Gray morning rain washes roses.
Mrs. Rafferty hangs washing in
hope of better things to come.
I approach this day with my own hopes.
Searching for words
to make sense of turbid dreams
and the stammering rock in my chest.
The wet black street shines
like polished chrome.
Overarching trees,
dark green shadow,
scarlet blossoms
framed by yellow jasmine.
So precisely beautiful,
a pattern, a meaning,
a language spoken
to reclaim what has been lost
in the rubble and dust
where killing goes on as usual,
to find what has been lost in the places
where everyone must have a plan
to kill everyone they meet.
While here awash in apparent tranquility,
bathed in supple gray streaked
with the golden and scarlet lightning strikes of spring,
there is the luxury of an indifferent day –
thoughts of washing, words, color –
the ferocious colors
burning in the gardens of this world.