Mirage IV

Spring day in February, so warm
at 10 degrees, lots of birds
in the trees, little sparrows
in groups and no breeze.

I have no weather to speak of:
a calm sea, water lapping
lazily, piecing fabric together
for a gift - my day passes
tranquillity, silence
interspersed with thought.

The edge of the world is
beyond me - I can't hear
the screams, can't see
the starving bears, the tusk
piles, the plastic floating endlessly.
I am not there in the place
of the magic wand:  the sacred
grove of care, of the good hand.

Perhaps the children
can hold back the sand.

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