The Day After
When your bones shiver, even the softness of a breeze rustling in the trees fails to console, the day after, even the birds’ morning songs become dirges as if they were told not to belt out their blessings this somber day after, and even sunshine that spackles the grass with shadows morphs into fences wrapped with barbed wire around green posts, this anniversary of Anne Frank’s birthday, the day after. I see the sparkling yellow finches, oblivious to the sadness that fills the marrow when into the quiet slips the faint rumble of trucks on a distant highway, a signal that somewhere drivers are at work anyway, and somewhere a child crawls into a teacher’s lap and she whispers they are safe anyway, and somewhere Dads pick up the paper and walk their dogs anyway. And somewhere friends and families of the dead open their eyes to blindness.
In memory of those killed in Orlando, 2016
I live and write in Richmond VA and continue to abhor the violence in our country and continue to look forward to tomorrow.