I saw death today.
If I could just imagine away
the twisted car,
the men in orange vests holding the traffic at
bay, and
the fierce lights flashing red and blue.
I wanted to replace them all with the sand and
surf,
and walk nonchalantly by that strong young man,
his chiseled arms golden brown in the hot noon
sunshine,
reclining in his beach chair, arms limp in
sun-sleep,
with a white towel over his face
to keep away the sand flies.
I saw his form for only a second, on my way home
from an ordinary shopping trip.
The white cloth on his face made me long to
surrender my day—
to give up my to-do list in favor of prayer for
all those hurling about in cars.
Instead I busied myself with the duties of my
home—
chicken and rice to put in the oven, garden
vegetables to chop and roast.
I picked too-ripe tomatoes from our chaotic but
robust plant.
Bending down, searching through tightly twisted
vines,
my quest for food crushed out the sharp smell of
green leaves.
I’ve always hated that bitter smell.
Deep in the dark middle of those vines lay the
fallen ones,
a pile of red potential wasted on ants,
and a few bloated yellow cucumbers.
I cannot reach them all.
