Hiroshima
We could fold ourselves into a thousand
paper cranes each nestled snug into the one
child’s bright life spread upon moving waters
out into summer, swans, fireworks bursting
too soon, a flash in the pan of August
that burns out monograms on schoolboy shirts
and leaves alone little girls’ lunchboxes
to witness, as if we would otherwise
forget shadows scorched into a stair
at sunrise, a tricycle crusted black
before a father’s disinterred grief,
dome of bricks resisting fall, finally
to wing perhaps a yellow paper sky
above a flame with no ash to deny.
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Categories: Transformation
Remembrance
on a day when storms threaten
not of fire
but of rain
Searing, beautiful. Thanks.
There’s nothing more important to say and say well, and you’ve done it.
I absolutely love the first two lines.
This is frighteningly beautiful.
I get a nice smooth mental image of peace and calm.