When all else seems lost, there is
the daily walking along the curving road.
around and up the hill
past the hobby farm
which week by month by year
has acquired real barns, a horse stable
 two ponds, geese, cows,
horses, and

gun shots in the woods, open
season—deer. 

My yogurt breakfast’s still turning
in my belly, along with the front page
headlines—a massacre of rebellious
Arab Taliban by Northern Alliance
Afghans backed up by US bombs.
Each known fact a razor’s edge
pressed against the throat.
Fear’s this never ending spring
bubbling red
from the center of the heart.
The light of day’s

a pearled seashell
held against my sky drenched ear.
The only prayers I dare to make
are silenced wishes
hurled down upon unyielding
drought-cracked ground.
                                                11/26/2001