Days
before the latest dawn
the thunderstorms snuck in under the blue.
They left the sky cleaned and calm.
We could breathe again, unsullied by the
rain that washed the dread away. The breeze
was easy.
There were
echoes of war, distant booms of
violence that crowded those who were listening.
We heard what we had never heard. We begged
for streets free from combat boots and full of
summer sandals shopping for new colors to wear.
I want to
write with words wrapped around bombs
exploding purposefully with letters flying everywhere.
I want a conflagration of vowels spinning between the
pages and consonants so crisp they smell of burnt bacon.
After that
I’ll write about trees and flowers again,
about bees and buzzes, about sunlight and breezes.
I find my mind so occupied like an overpour at the bar,
that I barely can mutter intelligent sentences.
But look
around me and scout the extravagant lyrics
unconnected to the chorus or bridge. Please excuse the mess;
I was just given the arrangement a day ago and my fingers
haven’t traced their melody long enough to make sense.
But once I get my cadence down, once I memorize the breaks,
you’ll be able to dance right up to the final coda and laugh
that the night was over so soon.
Until
then, we need words that ignite over night skies to
keep us in line. We need more rhymes to teach us the
daily grind for peace we never knew we would fight.
