by

Robert H. Dirr Jr.

Walking over land made void by napalm
And thousand-pound bombs,
My legs are covered with ashes,
A dusting of malignant snow.

We march in single file, dumbfounded
And gasp at five crispy critters.
Charcoal-ized lumps, they are only
Remnants of yellow men.

But the blackened scene is disrupted
By a small splash of crimson.
We pause at the absurdity of
A perfectly blooming rose.

� 1997, All Rights Reserved