Where are you?
Love, that human virtue that must stand up
or perhaps lie down.
Among the pistol and the automatic?
Or perhaps a bow ‘n arrow, drawn around a cartoon heart.
Where, when this world is so full of human crimes
is love’s lost art?
In the stands of oak, quaking aspen and -
The unforgettable problem
is roped around the map,
like a war on life itself.
Far away and long ago
before boneless chicken breast
and military drone attacks
before the epidemic of ever more epidemics
and the supersized madness
after the darkest night when I knew God was love.
My husband’s arms and my arms both are strong
from pumping water, and carrying wood,
lifting supers full of honey from the beehives.
At night his arm at rest, is beautiful on a pillow.
his naked unarmed arm is all:
A milagro drifting in my dreams,
the figurine of a small gentle arm
a charm, to cure our violent culture,
hangs from my skirt, just beginning the fringe
|I took this picture while walking in the woods recently. I'm including it here because people like pictures.|