In Sunshine
by Marcie Lynn Tentchoff

I've tried to live in sunshine.
Between the shadows
of the spiders' web-draped lair
and the smog-wreathed ebon spires
of the demon's roost
I've raised a garden up
of daffodils and maiden's hope,
and tiny, nameless, shining things
that grow in dewdrops on the grass
and ring like silver in the wind.

And when I hear
the frantic screams of children,
or see the stream nearby my house
stained black with venom,
red with blood,
or burning with infernal flames,
I plug my ears
with fresh, sweet leaves,
and hide my face
in beams of light
and golden blooms.

I will not offer sanctuary,
nor beat my plough shares
into blades,
and should the smoke of
blazing pyres make dim
the light that feeds my fields,
or stain my flowers sooty gray,
I will not see,
nor smell corruption
in their scent.

There is no sorrow in my valley,
no lamenting for what was
or should be,
nor any desperate grasping
after fairy tales
with magic swords
and happy endings.
Only peace, and calm, and me:
as brittle, blind,
and sparkling as
a cut glass vase of flowers
resting on a new-dug grave.