by Kevin Noonan

Created on: February 04, 2009

Red From the Sky

The wounds across your children remain

still calling, still bleeding, still weeping

despite your best effort to blot out the place where light

(once-upon-a-time)

stained your summer dress. But it's winter there

as it always has been; and should you see, when you look:

the snow falls red from the sky.

Tell me what you tell them when you sit down at the table of their hunger;

say the words you say when you bow your head but demand that they pray:

"bless us, oh lord, and these thy gifts..."

that fall down upon them

like snow falling red from the sky.

And then one day, the children will be gone

herding your sin on a quest to make it their own

while they feed off the harvest from the land of your dying,

the land upon which you still walk,

the land upon which the snow still falls

red from the sky.

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