As I wash the fields and the forest on the damp mountain side I rise to wash the dust off my gun... Mother...Holy Mother..hold your summer hands against my face. WAR waves hello. I wave goodbye. The tangerine trees are still fragrant, in season and I ache. Yes, this suit I have brought back is heavy, blood drained and marrow might be all that is left. No more blood letting and these 23 clocks running backwards. And, war is glistening like a dying heavy branch of thorns under an oath of morphine, truth.
© Words ~ Wendy Rose Watson