pour down like rain on the roof tiles
of a house on the outskirts of the city
we once lived in before the war dispersed
our possessions to the four or five winds
that scour the horizon or swirl within
the abandoned swimming pool where we
floated as we were bronzed by the ceaseless
sun that warmed the soil and induced
seeds to crack and sprout and soon
the whole region swelled with growth
and fruits were ushered to market upon
the heads of the local women who laughed
and some went with young soldiers one
of whom was killed by a girl’s bitter brother
a knife stabbed in the gut was jerked upward
until innards spilled yet sublime music filled
courtyards and even the old hermit emerged
to depict the festival in watercolors that did not
so much describe the sky as dictate
its possibilities to the day itself which was
long and heat-drenched and filled with
a sun-bequeathed hope that was perhaps
only dream for events would unfold regardless
of desires and the young husband who today
vaults the laughing child to his shoulders
tomorrow drowns as his skiff is flipped by
a sudden fist of wind yet life continues
his shattered bride will either adapt or perish
like the indigo butterflies that migrate
to their usual spot only to find it paved
so they flutter nervously from one fence
to another until somehow a collective decision
is made and they vanish like a fleeting thought