Thursday, December 30, 2010
This is a day of slow fire,
birch quietly burning in a black wood stove,
no wind, little sound, even when dust
falls mote by mote upon crusted
white snow and smoke rises
white from a dozen chimneys.
Today the stock markets are closed,
a day between skirmishes,
houses on Wall Street
assaulting pension funds for the infirm,
elderly and helpless,
bankrupting the retired,
collateral damage that yielded someone
a hefty bonus.
A Sabbath for children driven
homeless into dirty streets,
a day coyotes howl in broad daylight
and dogs answer defiantly excited
through trees on another farm.
A few feathers from a small bird,
scattered on the snow,
a chickadee for something’s meal,
must have been an owl,
how could a fox do that?
As I walk by, the horse is glad for company.
He stands all winter in his paddock under trees.
He runs in circles when coyotes or wolves
Somewhere this is a day of packed feeways,
lines at theatres, soup kitchens,
border crossings between famine and war.
911 will be dialed a thousand times today,
as if something dark and twisted
from another planet
is prowling our streets.
A day of fear.
The debtor weaves his credit
into blankets too thin for the winter cold.
The fallen on every side,
cancerous flesh disolving
before the chewing of a million
microscopic toxic mouths.
a day for filling the woodbox,
a cold front arrives tonight,
last summer’s cutting and splitting
will keep us warm while a gypsy jazz
violin plays softly and I stare into my fire.
What is my burden in the mayhem
how much can I bare?
Should I not tend my own borders,
I'll have mayhem of my own
enough to spare!