This rain among the candle flames

under the heavy

end of April evening

falls so softly on us

listening

that it dissolves us

like salt.

A child frets.

The grieving over names.

The same anger.

There are still far countries.

Mayday! they signal,

it’s sinking, crashing, it’s going

down now! Mayday!

But it used to mean

you went into the garden

early, that first morning,

to make a posy.

for a neighbor’s door,

or boldly offered —

“These are for your daughter! ”—

laughing, because she wasn’t up yet.

They were maybe twelve years old.

Afterwards

they went to different schools.

The bringing of light

is no simple matter.

The offering of flowers

is a work of generations.

Young men are scattered

like salt on a dry ground.

Not theirs, not theirs,

but ours

the brave children

who must learn the rules.

To bring light

to flower in a dark country

takes experts in illumination,

engineers of radiance.

Taken, taken and broken.

We are dim circles flickering

at nightfall in April in the rain

that quickens the odor of flowering trees

and the odor of stone.

Over us

is a dark government.

Circles of burning flames, of flowers,

of children learning light.

Circles of rain on stone and skin.

Turning and returning in shaken silence,

broken, unbroken.

Sorrow is the home country.