Day 358

Once this tree was abundant with leaves.
They have all been scorched, they have dried
and turned brown before their season.
My children’s arms are as thin
as the branches, their eyes
as empty.  All afternoon I have sat
watching my kids and their friends
kick a soccer ball. (Are they
ghosts yet?  Will the dust
they’re playing in be littered tomorrow
with corpses?) I am trying to learn by heart
the shape of this one’s chin, that one’s
cheekbones. The warmth
of their bodies in sleep.  Sound
of their breathing.  If I make of myself
a cloister, a sealed chest, can I hold
what’s imperiled, can I preserve it?
Night is falling now, soon their game
will come to an end.  (Will this be
the last night?   And what
will I do without their bodies?)