Five year old blonde hair pulled back
by a butterfly clip.
How many songs does she know
to lull me to sleep?

A tiger has stolen an elk from the plains.
I saw it outside my car window
and I wondered what the weak
have to say just before
their heads are torn off.

That is my poetry: last rites
for the fragile.

Of course I’m distracted by soldiers,
boats, a flag folded on a widow’s black lap.
Can the weak still be heroes?
Well, they are to five year olds with
blonde hair pulled back by
butterfly clips.

What I didn’t count on was
blind love, no regard for weakness;
I didn’t count on death
coming to get the strong.

04/04/2006

Posted on 04/04/2006
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