HONEST SWEAT

Little hands of leaves

Prayer like

On the branch
Withered from lightning

The winter was a hard one
Though not of discontent

Seasons iamb
Like the farmer
Rotating his fields
Across the street

I didn't think
We'd make it
First Gypsy moths
Then last winter
Lightning

Most get struck

by something

And your life withers
Like leaves in fall

There were so many times
I thought I had been struck

So many times
I should've been dead

As when the screen door
Slammed behind my brother
In whose hands was a shotgun
he fired in reflex and I in front

Years later he would die
Simply crossing the street

The minefield in Bosnia we drove through
Only to see the sign in the rear view mirror

The RPG round that sailed
Through the room
We cleared in Khandahar

But what does one do in the aftermath
Is it enough to simply say thanks
Such genuflection in which direction

Ah but the branch bears forth its fruit

Tonight Lightning illuminates
Clouds like Chinese lanterns
The limb rasps in the wind
Leaves cling to its ligatures

The storm passes through

Thank you for not giving up
Thank you for not giving in