Black Autumn
I still appreciate the autumn colors,
while bodies, blackened, rotting fruit of war
for blood to fill the gas tank of my car,
litter the ground, like fallen leaves.
Don't I deserve to take that country drive,
to look up through the vibrant reds and browns,
to breathe the air untainted by the smell
of cordite and the burning flesh of children?
A brown and crackling leaf adorns my table,
a sycamore, its crisp, five fingered veins
curled as though to grasp something invisible,
a moment's peace, or to catch the rain.