Poetry

To you, I
send my silence,
before the fire starts, to engulf
the open barn.
 
This mourning must stop.
I will wash your feet, of mud
and wet grass. You have
come after crossing the jungle of black roses.
 
Tomorrow I will call swallows.
A peacock will replace the
ruined, plundered, silk poppies.
The bleeding sky turns blue.
 
On the road, echoes
of greedy words will eat the smiles.