Visions of Spring

Our battered house
tugs at its anchor
in a sea of mud.

In the galley,
there are potatoes
with bulging eyes,
onions with hair,
dwindling lumps
of cheese and bread.

From the roof,
birds utter strange
messages, warnings,
painful cries.

Cities burning,
children starving,
the leaders have
all gone mad.

Only blood will
satisfy them,
and the marrow
of servile bones.

Only peace will
vanquish them,
sprouting on their
barren slopes.

I go to my window
and look out.

Fields rejoice
to the song of plows.

January 22, 2006

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