I have been writing and rewriting this poem for two years now. This is the latest version. I have changed the title, adjusted the line breaks and added/subtracted a word here and there…

Gray morning mist 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 this 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,
I can begin to believe there is hope
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 golden and scarlet lightning strikes of spring,
there is the luxury of an indifferent day,
thoughts of washing, words, hope, color –
the ferocious colors
burning in the gardens of this world.