As we stood out in the first rain
Of the season
Watching our granddaughters play soccer
I could not help but think
Of the children of Gaza
Who must be profoundly traumatized
By the bombs falling like rain
All around them,
Who must be frightened beyond anything
Our little granddaughters can imagine,
Who must be wondering
What it is like to die.
As we stood out in the first rain
Of the season
Watching our granddaughters
Get soaked by the downpour,
Get wonderfully, joyfully muddy
And happily exhausted,
Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa
Cheering them on,
I could not help but think
Of the crushed and mangled and charred bodies
Of the children of Gaza
Pulled from great smoking mounds
Of bombed hospitals and schools
And community centers and apartment buildings
As their bewildered spirits
Stumbled through the wreckage
Wondering what they had done
In their brief lives
To be treated with such brutality.
As we stood out in the first rain
Of the season
Watching the game come to an end,
The girls giving high-fives
To their opponents,
The coaches presenting each player
With a trophy,
The parents loading up the cars
To head home for snacks,
A change of clothes,
Maybe warm baths,
I could not help but think
Of the children of Gaza . . .
