There is a war raging
in our own backyards .
The dead bodies of your
carefully cultivated marigolds
and petunias lie scattered in the wake
of its careless plunder.
our old house burns gently
in its slow blaze like water
that you used to berate me for leaving
on the stove for far too long until
it simmered itself away.
I miss the sweet smell of bread,
the kind that made you want to leave
everything and watch it bake ,
for now I can smell only havoc
as it screams with the pressure cooker,
I miss snuggling into your arms
as the afternoon napped around us ,
for now , I can feel only water ,
water that floods around me drowing
our living rooms and our memories
our halls and our histories .
Somebody must have left the taps open.
I am sorry, Mother.
Sorry for I no longer know
how much of it I can salvage anymore.
But they are saying that tommorow
tommorow there is a Dawn incoming
maybe tommorow I can find dad's old tools and maybe not with the same
memories but maybe tommorow
I can build this house all over again.
Until then, Mother
as this afternoon burns around us
can I snuggle into your arms
one last time