News Poetry: In Syria

Photo by upyernoz, via Flickr: Creative Commons

soon my fingers say
crickets sing
the river laughs
death dances

words like a weariness
dark and threadbare
and slip out of my coat
on to my hands

a boy with long baggy pants
no shoes no shirt
half eaten left hand, with
extraordinary casualness
asks, when will the roaring come back

i scratched the air
a gesture of respect
or total ignorance
his question
leaves me empty
soon my fingers say

At 73 I have learned that one person can make a difference by being proud, speaking out, telling no lies, and walking the earth softly.