Day 247

Late afternoon light.  Alstrumeria
everywhere in my garden.  Rosemary, mint.
The lilacs past, calailies dried on their stalks.
I am thinking of children living, dying in tents.
I am thinking of those who were born in tents
in ’48, who died in tents a week ago
in Rafah.  A tent:  a temporary enclosure.
Our births and our deaths, temporary
enclosures. The plums on this tree are red,
inedible: by August
they’ll grow dark and sweet.  
The way these children will not ripen.
(Who could love a child and not
want to imagine him grown?  Not imagine
he will use what we teach
him?  Feed him?)