By Tracy Rodger
Sunday stillness,
gentle scent of green unfurling on the breeze.
This turning of brief summer’s lent,
cream blossoms dropping from the Linden trees
invites an early rise, pink dawn calling long before the shrill, insistent clock,
crows’ rooftop steps staccato, falling as I take this barefoot walk
to the hidden bit of garden, letting wet grass bathe my feet,
trying, failing not to stand on waking daisies circling my seat
to watch the sky’s shifting mosaic of light
hint at hopeful glints of sun
and pray today, of all days, might
see every battle cease, unholy wars unwon.
Where is the grace to pierce the hearts of basest, human beasts
who’d raze this lovely place,
erase all hope of earthbound peace?
The street dreams on, restless, sleeping souls,
weekend headlines’ fresh spun doom awaits,
ready to be served with well-fired morning rolls;
our daily bread of endlessly consumed and fearful hate.
Sitting in the plants’ exhale, I breathe
this small solitude. The wind falls still.
I sip my cooling tea beneath the Linden trees,
drinking in the blackbirds’ liquid trill.