If there is a God

I dreamed of words
bound in white kerchiefs,
signs waving in the shadowed valley of death.

By the time I had awakened
only my breath remained,
I do not know what words to choose
though a river or reconciliation flows
through sunlit dreams.
I cannot pluck harmonies
from the air to give to those who choose
to be right and call God to their side.
Do crop circles lie in crossing patterns? Does Stonehenge
offer a circle that proves stones speak?
I can not wipe hunger from the faces of children
and feed the race mind with the bounty of earth.

Who understands these things of war, these weapons
that can not spare a moment of self-reflection?
Death is the final act of living, and flowers never commit
suicide. They grow in the most unlikely of places.

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