Sunday afternoon, March 18
Some Angelenos ran the Marathon, others of us went to the Farmers Mkt in Atwater and bought almonds, fresh eggs, cauliflower. Some of us stood on the deck at the top of the hill and looked out at moving clouds, kite tails wriggling over the meadow, sky darkening then dazzling, snow dusting San Gabriels, dangling lemons, budding apricots, hummers in the salvia. We talked to a friend in Rome, made cabbage soup, potted succulents and thought about stories we were trying to write.
Others had their legs blown off in Kandahar,
or smoked cigarette after cigarette in the PX in Kabul.
Torn limbs. Floating clouds.
Dead lovers. Lost friends.
Tender spouse. Snoring felines. Agile niece.
Present satisfactions. Lingering anxieties.
Full blown terrors. Utter stillness.
All merge on a Sunday afternoon.
(word drawing: Susan Banyas)