Elma Photikarm
Black December Sky

onder if there were lingering lights or shadows of suspicion
woven on waves of memory stolen when survivor wrestles an
unmatched giant pulverizing parks, schools, trees and trains,
hurling homes and bodies of those already gone.
The last twig becomes raft and clinging with every ounce of
strength becomes the only alternative.
Wise and innocents are rag dolls ruined repeatedly-
battered, borne back to sea, then claimed as limp bodies
scraping shores. And as seagulls soar and swoop they might
as well take both body and spirit of their meals.
Flip calendars back a decade in December, rewind the clock to
New Year’s Eve-sips of island wine, jasmine-scented twilights,
magnolias in the morning. Smell the beach with sand in sandals,
scoop seashells, study emptiness, contemplate brilliance…
Now, it’s time to heal a heart aching to return, light an incense stick,
bow and kneel on sand with outstretched arms, pay tribute to victims
of power and forces of nature that equalize us all.
Time a grieving heart rekindles flame, resurrects paradise, restores
voices of laughing children at play in a land orphaned forever.
For we are all fruits of one Earth-a vintage vine-a bent branch,
The very reason to come together and rescue one another.


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