He stumbled as he stepped on the slick sidewalk,
His cell phone tumbled from his pocket,
And the woman running late behind him swore
When he stooped low to retrieve it.
Blaring horns from the cabs, and vendors shouting
And dirt in the damp air
A high rise pressing up to the gray sky
But could not touch it.
And the sky would forget.

She let the yarn twist on her gnarled fingers,
And she fumbled with the needle.
The warm tea tasted lemon on her tongue
As she rocked, gently.
Grandchildren shrieked on the lawn, and in their playing
Disturbed the sleeping wood duck on the murky pond.
It flapped startled wings, pushing water away, flying up
But the hazy summer sky was far above.
And the sky would forget.

Tourists walked the ground once soaked with blood
Where the little mumbling brook ran scarlet
And beneath the earth the bones of men
Pinned struggling down with bayonets.
A little girl went running to the battlement, she was climbing
High before her Papa pulled her off.
"But I could see so far, and could go higher!"
Her words floated up, following screams of men, to the sky.
But the sky would forget.

 

Emily Deans is a writer and doctor living in Boston. Her webpage is www.geocities.com/deansemily

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