In Praise of Endings
If this was the last war
I'd see purged the shadow bombs that press us from sleep
I'd no longer view sky high places that bleed red
to the clouds
but celebrate a rejuvenated land free from the spray of guns
I'd hear church bells careening with the swell of promise
the pull of new movement
gleaming
like the dissolution of sorrow
I'd hear laughter broad, like peacocks preening
and hallelujahs from the lips of orators
I'd invade streets smeared with the joy of dancing
I'd no longer weep at new war graves with poppies on
crosses
I'd see the sacred cord that binds soldiers to their mothers
restored
I'd throw to a meadow sunflower seeds to grow a
Van Gogh
I'd take a hay wagon ride with my lover to debate love's
curvy options
with compassion now a measure of value
for the end of war is like dreams on high volume
that mark the preservation of life
in its most vital form
beyond the reach of forgetting
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