While we were talking about poetry in the night
and consuming the fermented harvest
without thinking of those pickers of grapes
there was shock in the faraway streets,
bombs falling in worlds across from us.
A man was weeping.
While I was thinking about planting new trees
for Memorial Day, for my father,
one for my mother,
she who spent that last day
staring into my eyes
as if seeing I was still alive,
someone then, a child
lost her legs while she was chasing a ball
with a map of earth on it.
She was, we were,
all breathing the same air,
breathing as we ate the wild mushrooms
we gathered ourselves
from deep in the great dark forest
of fallen trees.