Thanks to some very special friends I believe I may have finally finished this poem, for now…
Gray morning rain washes roses.
Mrs. Rafferty hangs washing,
underclothes between sheets,
in hope of better things to come.
Boston ivy in crimson and emerald
drapes 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.
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.
Shadows close in beneath
the dark arch of locust branches,
In a cool mist of rain
my body takes on the aroma of mown grass.
A passerby seems to take no notice of the rain.
Her coat open to the air,
her mind intent, maybe lost.
I want to ask her something
but the words will not take form.
The wet stone street
I squint and lower my brim.
I am searching for a pattern:
in my steps,
in the stones,
in scarlet rose blossoms framed by yellow jasmine,
in the alignment of color in three dimensions
all so precisely beautiful.
Is there a language, a poem, 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 marigold and iris 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 the world.