Cumulus
jesse wolfe
At a certain point you have to stop running,
you cannot outpace the whistling
of the bombs, wavelengths shortening
as they target you from the sky.
Nor even the clouds, lolling, serene,
contemplative, above the skirmish.
At a certain point you have to stop
because neither the forest from which you emerged
nor the ocean toward which you stretch
could give cover, nor can your quietest stride
find camouflage in the wind.
At a certain arbitrary point
you have to say, here is a beginning
(not to pretend that nothing lingers,
that the trek across the bridge was a mirage,
or the nights sleeping on abandoned farms,
accepting bread and water from strangers)—
trusting that peace will fall, and fall again,
as the wind ensemble, perfectly still
between one passage and another,
lips wetted by tongues, instruments half aloft,
conceives the cadence of the fading silence.
25