poems

The Great Opening

It was the son of a soldier,
a soldier who killed his own people.
It was that gentle son who went
in despair to his grandfather’s
bridge to ask in his
solitude why.

And that night he dreamt
that everyone who had been hurt
and everyone who’d done the hurting
met on that bridge. And in their
awkwardness and pain, it began
to rain flowers which grazing
their skin opened their faces
and they were healed.

And the flowers, falling
into the water, brought
the fish who thought
the petals were food.

And the son of the soldier
woke committed to the building
of bridges and to the food
of flowers raining
from the sky.

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