Spring, Night

April, it’s late to be out, near midnight,

            Nearly first-quarter moon settling into

Layers of gauzy filigree stratocirrus clouds,

            Into the boughs of deodar cedar,

Cold slap of breeze blows from the west,

            From the sea, over the coastal mountains,

And the lights lit across the valley haze,

            The fecund scent of agriculture mixed with

All the blossoms exploding in early spring,

            And the silence,

I ache at the beauty of it,

            Ache at how little of it matters at all,

Half a world away missiles are falling,

            Innocents dying,

                        In a world at war,

We are being led by warlike men,

            We are being led down this final path

By warlike men.

            We are

Being led

            To our own, entirely mutual

Destruction

By

Warlike men.

04/14/24