with the sounds of war

soft sounds of bark chips
under my orange tennis shoes as i run the golf course trail
amongst trees so wide and tall
it is impossible to deny
that i am in the presence of elders
_______
the purple of the novel boba tea (taro)
cupped in my hand as we drive, lost-like, looking for our way to the shaded trails
so that we don’t bake the baby
in its black sling
on this sunny afternoon
_______
i’ve lost the language  i say walking amongst the great spills of wildflowers
blooming around usdeep 
(st. johns wart i can identify, but so many others i can’t)
as we walk the trail (baby’s first hike) that meanders
atop powelle butte
and shiz guides me to the mountain finder
where i can at least regain the mountain names
(mt. st. helens and mt. hood so unmistakable, i’ll never forget)
_______
three each i say
offering my cupped palm in which sits
the curve and deep juicy red
of thimbleberries
plucked from the bramble
at the end of the trail
_______
sweet smell of what i guess to be some kind of spruce
whose sap i can’t help but touch
and rub on my wrists
as if oil or perfume
 ______
the smoke smell of campfires drifting
across the fence on both sides of the backyard
while the sky pops and booms
with patriotic sentiments i never
wanted to live in a country
that celebrates itself (its colonized self)
with the sounds of war
_______
and i hate that a seven year old on the other side of the fence says about
a black lives matter shirt/sign it’s racist
aand the adults respond with a pause and i assume a glance and say
well, it is what it is! a modern day archie bunker
and this
is a hurt
that can’t be located 
because it is everywhere
_______
from the water world:

Sri Lankan stilt fishermen work on their poles in the southern town of Galle.

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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