Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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morning gifts

this morning, safe here
in a house in sight of woods
that are my paradise, enriched
by nature, friendship
and by song,
I fly the carpet
of the past to places
rent apart by fear and hate,
cities come full circle,
back to the boil,
remembering too many
older furies,
scars of fire and rage,
spurred on by tragic news
that opened wide
the throat of anger,
again. and yet again.

is there a morning gift
to move a child,
in that beleaguered place
to see beyond, to hope?
perhaps a bud about to burst
rather than shattered glass,
a snatch of song
instead of shouts,
the momentary joy of play,
a quiet hug and loving words?
oh how I wish it were
a simple thing to banish hate
this way, and seed our future
with small scatter shots
of peace