It has been not raining
all day; drought refuses forecast.
Maples by the road rattle paper leaves
and ferns fade my memory of green,
turning to skeleton
gauze undercover.
We live by a tide-out lake.
When at dawn the moose come to drink,
spots of land arise
like raised footprints of ancients.
When the wind blows,
waves move toward shore
not like water,
breaking in glory,
but sand-sifted, sand,
thirsty for sand.
I drink a cup of water
from a still-giving well,
weep dry
for the tallest pines and old white birch.
Our leader tells us
we must pour out the water
from our shoes. We must
brush our teeth in gasoline.
We must understand
that we do not understand.
We must go to war.
Published in “Beloit Poetry Journal,” 2004
Published in “Dove Tales, an International Journal of the Arts”
Home page feature on website “Poets Against the War (Iraq), 2005