violins and violence

Year Of The Gun (The Fall Of Us All)

settled here
in the warmth of low, autumnal sun moving south of the equator,
soaking in George Butterworth's Banks of Green Willow,
part idle, part poem, part song

halcyon and pastoral is this moment,
and in it a realization;
i have nearly survived this 44th year
despite,

wolves ravaging bulls on Wall Street,
little boys with bombs in Mideast markets,
new wars, old wars, cold wars heating up,
baneful winds of Eduardo, Fay, Gustav, Hanna, Ike

the reality of 45 murders a day in America,
but rumors of my own demise greatly exaggerated

succumbing of course
to the eventual fall of us all

but for the moment, basking in the passive light of equinox,
with a predilection in my belly, a promise in hers,
the violins play on in a sweet counterpoint to the violence
in this Year Of The Gun