Light morning mist coats roses.
Mrs. Rafferty hangs washing in
hope of better things to come.
The day holds my own hopes,
searching for words
to make sense of turbid times,
this stammering rock in my chest.

The wet black street
is polished chrome.
Overarching trees
dark green shadow,
violet blossoms
blue baptisia
framed by yellow jasmine.

So precisely beautiful,
surely a pattern, a meaning,
a language spoken
to reclaim the rubble and dust
where killing goes on as usual.
To find what's been lost
in places where everyone
must have a plan
to kill everyone they meet.

While here is tranquility-
palpable, bathed in supple gray
streaked with gold and scarlet
lightning strikes of spring.
We have luxury, the indifferent day,
thoughts of laundry, words, colors–
ferocious colors
burning in the gardens of this world.