Grief
curls fingers into fists:
Ours
pound cluttered oak desks.
Theirs
rest on closed pine coffins.
Please
cancel this spring.
We’re
courting death in Iraq, not life.
So
much greening belies their pain, their loss.
Clench
your fists harder still.
Squeeze
flower back to bud.
Against
all odds, press bud into stem.
Allow
no fragrance but sad smoke, no birdsong but wailing.
Harbor
no spring here while their children perish —
that
we might long for life, both theirs and ours.
.