Spring Offensive

The warriors call this
the spring offensive,
a battle born of blooming roses
and wild sunflowers
in Los Angeles or Honolulu hillsides
as in the plains of Kabul
or Baghdad.

We now come
to mourn for the death
of these flowers, pretty and faithful
in this spring when life begins
when the memory
of the coming summer
speaks volumes about children's laughters
as we run to gather what petals
we can sniff, not stray bombs,
not death, but beginnings we recognize
in stalks alive with colors
swaying with the evening wind from the sea,
salty and fresh, and taunting the stars
flickering their lusting for the earth
reciting silences to replace language
and its failure to stop
the merchants of death.

They play with words now
as if murder is the same as loving
and the notes to killing the innocents
are decalogues to winning a strange war
with no name except
annihilating meanings
and what it takes to mean something.

The times are strange,
the clock does not move as before
except to declare that another man
another woman another child
another place another city
another father another mother
another dream another homeland
another story another god
another river another home
another memory
another salvation
another dream

is dead.


A Solver Agcaoili
UH Manoa/Feb 27/07