She Cries


Wind whispers through the trees.
Such a gentle breeze to soothe
the existance of my skin.
Birds titter and squeak while insects
chirp their constant melodies; even
the rush of traffic is muffled to soothing
whooshes, faint background hum.
One could dissappear here and yet
hanging in the air is an acrid smell
of smoke. It snaps me back to less
quiet thoughts and I see my hand with
its scarred finger holding down the pages
as I write.

The scar, angry like the world, years
from new but screaming LOUD,
interupting the tranquility of my
epidermis. A blight to famine the
beauty of unmarked cells. Too
many scars. My hands have had
their share of living, though there
are moments they still find grace.

Branches of the ceder rise like
ladder rungs above the roof and
carry me back years to the pine
trees of my youth.
The ones I would climb so high.
I would sit and sway in their branches
far above the roof. Some days I would
soar with the birds, wind blowing
through my hair and burning pink
across my cheeks.
Then mom would look up and call
"COME DOWN!...at least to where
you are lower than the roof."
A sigh, a frown, a defiant
"I wont fall," but for her I would
climb lower anyway.

Somewhere someone mows their lawn.
I hear the traffic again. Escapes too
short, too few these days. The world
is angry, sharing its unrest with those
who feel. Constant undercurrents of
tormented screams, a planet dying...
shuddering to purge itself of this plague
of wasteful instant gratification, this
bacterial infestation of egotistical greed
carried to its most vulnerable surfaces
by this parasite of man.

I hate it when she cries.


2003 SAH