Day 464

Even the trees have been bombed,
the orange trees that were so fragrant,
the lemon trees, pomegranate.
Even the trees have had to bend,
bow, split apart like the arms
and legs of children.  The hillsides
that were green with trees,
the roads over which trees 
made dappled canopies:  all flattened
now, rubble and jagged stones.
At night you can hear the land cry
as wind rips through empty spaces.
Didn’t everything have roots? it
sighs.  Couldn’t it all
grow back, push up
through the ground, bear again
the fruit of its savaged memory?