A POEM BY THOMAS R. SMITH
Peace to the goose with the broken wing, eliciting
the maddening kindness of human beings, maddening
because inconsistently applied.
Peace to the snapping turtle burrowed in the riverbottom
mud, frozen and sealed as if for Judgment Day.
Peace to the queen bee in her hive, kept warm
at the center of a ball made of thousands of her
subjects, not all of whom will survive the winter.
Peace to the bear in her leafy den, giving birth
in her sleep, as it seems that poets sometimes do,
astonished to awaken to the bright, hungry eyes
of the poem.
Peace to the trees keeping their minds on heaven,
while holding fast the under-sky of roots and mycelia.
Peace to the clouds, shielding the sun from the
glaring follies of humans below.
Peace to all the fevered world with its rising
temperature and tides.
Peace to the famished who have eaten the poisoned
bread of lies.
Peace to the strangers to themselves, unable to abide
their own company.
Peace to those from whom everything has been stripped,
who shiver in fear of the coming winter,
having never recovered from the last.
Peace to those who live in dread of the picture
the puzzle pieces of dusk are assembling.
Peace to those whom anger and shame keep awake
through the long night, fighting the reckoning
that collapses the day.
Peace to the one who lights a single candle, hoping its heat
is enough to keep him alive while help is on its way.
Peace to those who wait patiently and impatiently
for a new song to be born in the silence.
