I wake up to the quiet alarm
of distant thunder, rain — Spring
offering diplomacy after a lethal winter.
It is a day to sew maternal gifts,
but it is for pleasure
that I stitch and miter
fabric the colors of robin’s eggs
and lilac leaves just starred.
It is for my pleasure the cotton
steams fragrant from under the iron
spread out open and flat
in the furrows I sew.
If only Spring found pleasure
wielding her power
like this, fingers flying
in grassy compassionate treaties
along the far passes of the blue planet.
I think pleasure would be enough
for her to mete out comfort equally.
* * *
I heard about the devastating landslide in Afghanistan, burying a village after days of rain. It was when I saw photographs here that something strange and wonderful happened. Aren't we constantly presented with wide-ranging emotions? I discovered the beautiful simplicity of this village only after it was partially destroyed. I did not know such places existed, never imagining the neat prettiness there nestled in the mountains of a part of the world decimated by war. Please go see those images and perhaps you will feel the connection I feel. There are no graphic images of people dead, only a village with part of it buried. (There is a photo of a dead donkey.) To imagine what these villagers are experiencing now, one boy losing his whole family. If only Nature could heal all our sins. Well perhaps she will, long after we're gone.
