Split Level

 

I run two ways at once:

Into my sunfilled patio

Of small happinesses,

Ringing with child laughter 

And enchanted by narcissus wands,

But also to the dank

Underpinnings of my house

Where the earth is infused

With seeping tears of jungle war,

And spiders are sad things

Not knowing the sparkling nets

Of their airwafted cousins.

In this house I live,

Torn asunder by hope and fear

Which live in my house also-

Not speaking.  

No matter what one writes about calamitous events, it seems inadequate.  Still, sometimes a poem helps.

Written during the Cuban Missile Crisis, 1962