One Voice
The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.
—Psalm 121
I lift up mine eyes unto the hills
from whence cometh my help—
and they’re small, beneath a sun
fated to burst apart someday,
its power cast off in waves of flame.
Even now the flesh of children burns,
and the flesh of soldiers—
and in China, Pennsylvania, coal mines
spread their fires for miles
underground—while protesters, a few,
keep their vigils, the nearby traffic
stalled and fuming—and still
letters get mailed to the editor.
Before five in the morning, alone,
the first bird, in all sincerity
perplexed,
poses his question: he doesn’t ask
why he asks—but waits—
and repeats himself.
Intrusive and musical,
his query has broken my sleep—
one voice
clear of the oncoming chaos
as the sky, already, is turning light.
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