Page 32 - flying stones
P. 32
two Roberts told
a gentle poet once wrote of fire and ice,
preferring how our lives might abruptly end.
yet another queried in plaintiff tones
how long ‘til we might know no other war.
to no avail alas.
great armies now are poised
on ancient Arabian sands
disputing invisible borders,
liquid money, self-righteous pride.
whether death comes by poison gas or
toxic rain, it matters not to most.
and yet how much the pity.
the same lonesome hobo breeze
that carries cankerous, blistery death
might rather turn the broad blade to sow
the farmer's benevolent mill,
retelling the swayer of birches:
the answer still persists
in the promising, naive wind.
