morning poem, December 11, 2015

 

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From far away, the houses on the hillside look perfect

Winter’s bare trees, above and below

Are unfocused: the grey upstrokes of the painter’s stiff brush

But the red-brick houses are square, their lines even

Their white shutters all in a row

In this sunlight they bask, looking new as the morning.

.

Who lives there?

Those who give more than they take?

Whose hope inspires good work and creates wealth?

Whose tables tonight will be spread with health and abundance?

Whose lives are not dependent on the decisions of corrupt offices?

Whose sleep is peaceful?

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Oh, that there were some such

Oh, that there were many

Oh, that the center might hold.

 

Copyright 2015

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