The bright warm day beckons
but I stay indoors, reluctantly
climb the stairs to my dark tower
where I sit and wait for the world
to set itself right,
for time to collapse
under my fingers tapping the keyboard.
Last month’s newspaper sits idle
under a coffee cup
rapes, murders, wars and politics
now fading ink.
The yellow daffodils so bright and cheery
last week in the garden
are wilting in the narrow blue vase
No matter how fiercely, how
tenderly I recreate the world.
(From The Scar Saloon by Sholeh Wolpé, Red Hen Press, 2004)
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