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