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a warrior king would best attend his thirsty, footsore army in the desert inspire them to sacrifice, to violence, and to victory and I – I, too, would best attend to my own charges, busy leading their no less important campaigns in the sand and so I try, but you demand consideration: there, your roots that once were fed with finest Roman wines– there, your arms that have embraced an outcast as he climbed to see the rabbi– there, your mottled, marbled skin, and
there, your burst of winter-naked capillaries
threading into the blue, a living
net of breath and food and sun
no wonder, then, that you could stay
a warrior king, his million marching soldiers,
and this mother on a playground,
hold us rapt before you and command
attention, contemplation,
perhaps wary fascination,
as we push aside the nagging sense
that pausing here to meditate
upon a sycamore might cost us
poem and photo (c) 2015 D. Ohlandt
please only reprint in entirety and with credit given
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