I wish my life was marked clearly
like the blue trail I walked today.
Trees blazed, telling me when to turn,
alternative paths. That the end is here.
I’m avoiding side trails. I am lost.
standard trail blazes
I can recall my son’s sleepy hair
soft from his blanket in early mornings
and warm where I press my hand
as he twitches lightly in a dream -
but I was there. I was there.
More guns in a school. This time
thousands of miles away in a place
we imagine full of violence and terror
but is probably more like your hometown
than anyone of us dares to think.
The title for this poem was seen this week on a protest sign in the aftermath of militants entered a school in Peshawar, Pakistan, opening fire on the students with automatic weapons and detonating multiple explosive devices. The attack killed 132 children and nine staff members, and another 120 were injured. All of the gunmen were also killed. The Pakistani Taliban, claiming responsibility, said the assault on the children was in retaliation for attacks on their own families in North Waziristan, where the Pakistani Army has been carrying out an offensive against several militant groups.
The Earth spins more than a thousand m.p.h.
and I feel that dizzying speed today,
though I fix my gaze upon trees
deeply rooted, the clouds are moving fast.
I clutch the railing, but I’m rising.
Outside is rain. No snow. I’m thankful.
It’s getting harder to shovel the walkways.
Lately, winter seems longer than three months.
But tonight, I’d like to be snowed-in,
warm fire, a cabin far from here.
The red Japanese maple outside my window
dropped all its leaves and accepted winter.
Inside, its bonsai brethren is holding on
to what we call spring, winter, summer.
It knows two seasons – awake and asleep.
I am closing my circle of friends,
pulling people in to retain whatever heat
remains between us. The closeness feels good.
The circle feels secure and more manageable.
The center is me. It is everywhere.