Anecdote of Wars and the Dead From Same

 

Sometimes you see ice ferns at the windows and they resemble the hands of the dead

Though you don’t say it aloud. You are half a child, half like Strindberg–foolish either way

To imagine the dead want to return. Of course that’s it:

Coming to life, the sheer glide of archaic whirling

Is what the dead would wish. Oh, but not to be us,

Not to be men or women again;

Nor to be children running at dusk

Between the hills and houses.  

I too, mostly blind have a form to see with

And can understand the world I saw.

Birds in the meadow rose like a cloud and vanished.

 

S.K.