Winter sky.Bare branches
Backs arched up, out.
A cat licking its paws
In the yard next door.
The pink of slave-quarter walls
Made nacreous by failing day.
And I.
What voice sings within me
And in the glory of shifting light
Atop the oak, amidst its limbs?
Why does the common grace
Of closing year
Return me to myself and hope
Amidst the ruins?
Out of the East war threatens.
Westward ride the Horsemen.
And I sit
Wait
Wonder.
It's possible I've posted this poem previously on this blog, though a search using Blogspot's search engine for terms included in it isn't turning up any hits. If I have posted the poem before, my apologies for recycling it again. It's in my mind the past few days, following Mr. Obama's war speech. I wrote it in New Orleans as Mr. Bush Ist began the wars in the Middle East.
