War Is Over

Two and a half miles and two owls. Robins and rain. Petals and pollen. Street, feet, sandal-squeak. And that was my run.

My brother’s funeral has come and gone. It was in Edmonton. We were here at home. There was video provided the next day, despite a power outage during the service, which left the room dark. A side door had to be opened to admit some light.

Admit the light: confess it: you know it’s there within you.

See the light: address it: you know it’s here within me.

The old couple’s kitchen light is on at the top of the hill. I imagine she’s up early, getting the biscuits on. He’s still in bed with the cat. The next time around, the light’s off. Maybe there won’t be biscuits after all.

There won’t be biscuits. There won’t be fisticuffs. Fur and fluff’s enough. Fur that purrs. Power to the people. If not, there’s still the sun. That’s where power comes from anyway.

Window ledge and myrtle hedge. Is this a free-form poem? Are we in love? Are we ever out of love? Of course not. Of course not. Imagine what you will. Don Quixote’s windmill. La Mancha. Sancho Panza is governor. War is over. Peace. We all have flowers in our hair.

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