Three days after bombing Syria

The biting wind blows through a magnolia in bloom
rips off petals
heaves them in chaotic zigzags to the ground.

Not knowing which way to turn
in the cold, mid-April
comes to a standstill, frozen
in place, alone
and seasonless.

Later when the wind dies down south of Corner Ketch Rd.,
I sit in the grass, leaning back
against a honey locust trunk.
The trail winds
on and on.

Quiet now.
In the growing dark, the coming night
is a Lenape brave remembering
the taste of mashed cranberry smeared
on a roasted pheasant leg near a marsh
that has now disappeared.

Our killings began long ago.
The stars are out.

Robert Bohm is a writer on culture and a poet. His most recent book of poems is What the Bird Tattoo Hides (2015, West End Press, New Mexico). He has been a political activist since his tour of duty with the army in 1967-68. Over the years, he has worked on wide range of issues, including antiwar, labor, racism and education. He is currently working on a book about the U.S. left's failure to develop new strategies and tactics for confronting advanced capitalism. Of his six books, one is a nonfiction work on India, his wife's homeland where they have spent much time in the southern state of Karnataka. Read other articles by Robert.