The opposite of war.

The Opposite of War

Having read the news online, apprised

In my second story window.  Nothing

But war.  Then, the opposite of war

Watching two and a half miles away

The Rotunda is illuminated through

Winter branches.  It is comely, the only

Dome of granite in our country

It must be cold to the touch

Glowing white with a cool hint of

Orange, or is it green?

I turn out the lights, rise to the window

Study the color.  I see full well

Yet cannot decide.  It began to appear

On the other side of Winter, when

Ten days coaxed down the seasoned

Lofts of painted leaves in warm

Discordant floods of canopies

And now the sticks, the sapless

Arthritic sticks with nothing to hide

Mother-in-Law imagines each stick

With a prayer for Spring

Each stick chewing its knuckles

In nubile angst to suck the juice of earth

Longing to sprout breasts

At the birthday beach party, girls

On towels with goose flesh

And the contemplation of boys

Each limb remembering how blood

Flows from trunk toward sky

Now I see.  The colors glowing

Keeping vigil above the neighborhoods:

They are the colors reflected in late winter

Colors present in nighttime

When we least know of them

When war is unfamiliar

When calm is broadcast in the cold