Our dreams begin to open on the ninth floor
of the Marines Memorial Hotel.
Clean tombs equipped with all that is needed
for a weekend to die for.
Guests view what they can see at their level.
Flags wave from rooftops of skyscrapers,
like spring flowers praising the high winds.
Below a jungle of souls
in hypnotic allegiance flow past
concrete fields choked with roads.
Fatigued, dormant dreams weakly climb
praying to continue, to go on,
Hoping to recognize
silence as it sings a sacred invitation
to follow the fire of morning.
In our room we listen to the
television flicker between old graying movies
and a war in Kosovo.
At the window we have the luxury to turn away. . .
and witness the massacre of our afternoon.
Hail stones bullet the sunlight,
day bleeds pools of darkness.
Night falls to the light
Colors resurrected in our hearts
glow triumphant, emblazoned with life.
Who do you tell what your heart sees?
Who would believe the sound of it?
Oh Love, Oh Light--
"Please stay with us,
for it is nearly evening and the day is almost over." luke 24:29