Stained-glass blue day. But smoke, after anoise
from heaven, still drifts halfa world away
over fallen houses. Soot faced, the winged boys
turn for home, the word mission still warm.
still pungent in the mouth. Little wonder the sky,
when you lift your splitting head to its glare,
is heavy with questions, though! ground here
is harrowed and seeded: sleek leaves, grass blades
barely showing- just enough to say green
in the blazing face of heaven. But- with
the spongy simmer ofautumn still bubbling-
how can these migrant juncos have come
to our berried hedges and overhanging canopies
of leaf, their voices silver- -tinkling mini- -bells
of glass? And how, for reasons al
unspoken, can a few human voices hope
to hold the blood to some old promises?
Simple wishes fora post-war world of touch
in earnest, when smoke cleared, cries died down
snow covers the only ground left to stand on.