after Eamon Grennan

An older poem reworked and hopefully improved…

Gray morning rain washes roses.
Mrs. Rafferty hangs washing,
underclothes between sheets,
in hope of better things to come.

Fuchsia phlox drape over ancient walls.

I approach this day with my own hopes.
Walking, searching for words
to make sense of turbid dreams,
and this stammering rock in my chest.

Dark green shadows sway
beneath the arch of branches,

In a cool mist of rain
my body takes on the aroma of musty grass.
A passerby seems to take no notice of the rain.
Her coat open to the air,
her mind intent, maybe lost,
in its own mitochondrial pathways.
I want to ask her something
but the words will not take form.

The wet stone street,
the glare,
polished chrome,
I squint and lower my brim.

I am searching for a pattern:
in my steps,
in the stones,
in scarlet blossoms framed by yellow jasmine,
In the alignment of color in three dimensions
all so precisely beautiful.

Is there some language expressing hope?
A way 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 – for survival.

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.
A walk in the rain.
Thoughts of washing, words, hope, color –
the ferocious colors
burning in the gardens of this world.