habitant

The people we play
the ones remembered

from memory or some story 
a ghost beneath the nail we
scratch at hunting fathers'

tender and mothers' dreams
splintered beneath unkindness/

it's the mantle of yesterday 
of what is loved and not 
yet owned or even known.

Still we choose to be brave
to live a life kinder, flowers are 
on the table because we thought 

to walk to a garden, coffee brews
on a Saturday morning, little feet 
already rushing beneath the sun.
                              My heart, does

a war rage outside the window?
Are the people who wage it
good? When I blow upon

the palm, even in this
dim light dust looks a little 
like stars, and I decide 

there the universe is
in my own hand, 

and the children receive 
this debt, a path lit
by this child we stay,
a joy that is owed.