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Poem

I think of green,
and of a nation's spring
worn in by evenings
when the summer's war
marked birth in dripping red,
and autumn's amber grief
grew dry in sighing.

Then winter sagged in its own weariness;
gray breath lay heavily upon the snow,
and time, impounded in its gelid womb--
solidified and comatose,
could not envision dreams.

I think of green,
and men who had no time to think of it.
No time to plan, 
or plough or plant green fields
upon a blackened earth,
for then it was
that death romanced too well.

Retire the colors.
While my voice will revel
in the song of victory,
I still would think
of Reich and greening time--*
still carry in this aging shell
a lust for peace,
for justice,
for humanity.
             ~
*Ref. to Charles Reich's book
in the 70's, "The Greening of America"

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