A year later

Busy bus fumes and factory plumes

wilt golden orchards,

as glass shards glint in the blinding sun,

While ancient melodies

hum stillness into

the scorched hills of poppy,

now carpeted in green.

Can a weave of ruddy

grit stitch new garments

of living hope?

We mend and darn and hem

with tears and wonder.

Winded and breathless,

Hineini.