Day 235

I sit here
in late afternoon, light
filtered through leaves of my plum tree,
my apple tree. If I could speak
with you, who are walking
at this same moment
through burnt ruins
of the bombed-out
tent camp, searching for anything,
anyone alive — You, boy, 
who may be fifteen
or sixteen, who in some other life
would be out with friends, laughing,
joking — If I could take
your hand and lead you 
from the horror you are walking through —
your eyes blank, your face 
hollow — you, who were (not
long ago) someone’s
child. You, who have become
wraith, nightwalker, empty pod.