Neighbors drift by, faces upturned. The sky
is fallen dark; we curse the clouds and call
for blood, for ruby, crimson, rust — we all
unite; our social networks breathe a sigh
of joint frustration. But some can see
where we can not; pictures arrive in wine,
maroon, magenta, burgundy, carmine –
and why so many names for blood? Have we
such a cursed history? I teach the war,
as told in poet’s songs and writer’s tales;
I can’t escape the broken-hearted wails.
And yet, my child and I have looked for more,
curled in my bed — penumbra, umbra, dark.
She sleeps. I watch and trust the light returns – oh, hark!