The Wintergarden

Stalk shadows stretch thin.
Too may uncounted days sink dark
upon legions of fallen leaves,
brief notice of one or two
acclaimed in happenstance
leaving strewn ground for the rest,
waded through as inconvenience,
raked or burned or blown away,
they leave no marker or memory
as  sentinal Mothers grieve to no avail .  

This fallow ground
once brought nourishment
for both body and soul;
red juicy tomatoes, gay sunflowers
even stalwart watermelons
who withstood much adversity
but finally yielded to rape,
brandishment of sticks
to satisify the caprice
of an evil unthinking mind.

This Wintergarden sees no season.
Land is not replenished.
There is no nature,
so death is not natural,
death is not given , it is taken by force;
These are fallen leaves of Sandy Hook,
daisies ripped up from Pulse,
insane smashing of innocent growth,
leaving countless devestated gardens in Miami, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas;
even whole fields in Rwanda.

Wasted, all wasted so many days, so many ways, so many times.
Here left as scant memory and  honor in only  two days of media attention,
blase “thoughts and prayers,”
and the final numbing disowning affront-
“I’m glad it wasn’t me” 

 When did shame die in the Wintergarden?

-Jerry Wendt 2018