a poem for Gaza

 

I wonder what your hands are doing, while mine chop onions for dinner.

I wonder what your eyes are seeing, while mine gaze at the fresh spring green of the pineapple weed and aspen trees in the yard.

I wonder what your ears are hearing, while mine catch the song of the sora, the red-winged blackbird, the marsh wren.

Wild Roses

I wonder what your skin is sensing, as mine feels the tiny prick from a mosquito.

I wonder what enters your nostrils, as mine inhale a warm breeze that has blown in from across the chilcotin plateau.

I wonder what your tongue tastes, as mine savors the last of the root cellared roasted beets, carrots and parsnips.

I wonder what your arms are holding, while mine bring in more pine for the cookstove.

I wonder what your are thinking, while I stumble about with my daily routine, preoccupied with trivialities.

I wonder, but I cannot imagine.

I am sorry.