Brazen bronze seedbeds
accosted by frozen brown bombs,
following an early frost,
when flowers freeze before
leaves and people fall,
their lively colors trapped
still vibrant and glowing,
as if they are not dead after all.
Broken boards and barren stalls
line the barns left as fallow
as the fields where bombs have fallen.
Images so serene and spare
burn the sockets in despair
that life so precious
no longer has a place
among this not-so-human race.
The season of death and dying
has descended and too many dreams
have been up-ended.
Bursts of air throw up clods of dirt
upon the nations of the earth
burying every sound of mirth
amidst the screams of lasting horror.
And yet we know that Spring will come
after this winter of solemn sorrow.
The best we can do is hope
for a better tomorrow.
So it has ever been
and hopefully,
so it shall be
if only we
can survive
the winter
and war’s demise.
annarino writes 