In Defense of Poetry

Late Blooming Roses by David Baker

The Sun cracks through
the bracken sky-
week of

black clouds, rain, spit-
mist of fog
the streets

gripped with terror,
and mud against
the curbs.

Now the dog down
the street's racked with

and the red flag
waves on my e-
mail screen.

I want the petals
bright, the whole
nine yards:

so when the hel-
icopter thumps

from somewhere to
somewhere, I
feel once

again the heart-
rattle, that old
grave fear,

--that thrum-as in
a movie of
the war

that everybody
watch, though no
one won.