Say Something About the War

I wake in a stupor, limbs heavy and eyes confused. The little town on the river sleeps, still, March sunrise peaceful in its arrival, all birdsong and slow movements. Up too late, out too long, who do you think you are but the answer lies in the season, you couldn't help it. 

Last night, in the little theater in Woodstock, hallowed halls and an air of hippiedom in the aging crowd, a large band took the small stage and let us forget, just for a while, the evils of the world outside. A new book wrote itself in my tingling fingertips, as it always does in the creative swirls of someone else's performance. She writes I hear you want to perform some of your poetry at our festival, we'd love to have you and you wonder what spring will really be like in this brave new world. 

The roads home were dark and winding, lit only by a full moon and a feeling of wonder. A new day begins again. 

I mean that as a metaphor.