Somber Sonnet
I sit here on a fine spring evening,
watching as a slight breeze eases the leaves
in the twilight. I am seeking meaning
in a world where a widow, silent, grieves
in Falluja. I sit here keyboarding,
wondering whether to have one more bowl
of ice cream, secure in my wondering,
whether the knee that causes me to howl
and slow my tennis game would get me caught
in cross fire in Tikrit, how I might fare
as a non-violent soul in a land wrought
in hatred. Unwilling to act or care
as I relax for the next morn's travel,
of my complicity in that land's travail.
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