​​Witness


This morning, the sky is gray-green 
as the mantis in the garden — both glistening.
Each moment is intense like this when seen 

clenched as prayer hands. War is a mean
way to bring about peace. There is no listening
this morning. The sky is gray-green

like army camouflage. Peace is a dream
distant as a reply to a prayer. I keep insisting 
each moment is intense like this. When seen 

from afar, a field looks calm, but a stream
turns torrential, quickening and releasing.
This morning, the sky is gray-green

and the mantis has its prey between 
its pinchers. Nature has an edge, a twisting.
Each moment is intense like this when seen

up close: a serious garden pruning; a screen
for violence; a defining moment of bleeding.   
This morning, the sky is gray-green; 
each moment is intense, like this, when seen. 





War
“…and they shall beat their swords into plowshares” — Isaiah, 2: 3-4

Like broken sod, peace is hard, satisfying work. 
Sometimes, impediments get in the way 
as if frost has not worked its way out yet.
Usually, the middle agreement has not been found, 
just like the sun has not found the horizon.

We have to step back, listen harder, 
like mating birds listen for that one call among many.

There are times when the plow is stuck, 
and no one can move it. 
Pushing and shoving go nowhere fast.
The lack of agreement is just as frustrating.
Then we have to be patient, wait, days maybe, 
before the land and plow can work together.

I tug on a horse’s reins to urge, 
one more time, but the kind word works better, 
and then the horse shakes it his head 
agreeing, slowly, one more time, or, 
no, not this time.

Nations work this way, too.