These Aren’t the Poems I Mean to Write

Give me sparrows, not gunfire.
Give me long forest walks, sweeping prayer-like vistas.
What sin, what god has brought this hammer down,
ringing again and again as our hearts become steel,
when there is sky enough to dream,
when there are countless wheeling stars?
 
There were raindrops on tulips
in the garden where I grew.
Unheard of then, what is now routine.
It takes a body count to make the news.
Our leaders of no use at all.
 
Our distinguishing gift to the world, this:
that terror happens anywhere,
so go about your life. Raise your children
in the din of innocent blood.
Raise the flag, but only halfway.

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Al Fournier
 

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