If the tongue
could be harnessed
and driven like oxen
across the untilled heart
to turn the whim of nature
into fallow;
so that every whisper
seeded love
in the rich soil of the soul,

how the wind would carry
songs to catch
in the smooth hands
of schoolgirls
wearing yellow dresses;
as fleeting as a dervish
is a white dandelion seed
caught in soft breezes
that interweave.

Then demands would not ricochet
off borders built of rhetoric—
like lead pellets
off of the iron helmets
of blood drenched schoolboys

and warplanes would not magnify
the weight of the sky
until it crushed every mud-brick home.

And nothing would really die.
It would only smile
and hold gently
the stitched edge
of a yellow dress.

It would listen to that laughter
that we know
while it faded into the center
of its own joy
and was caught up
to dance in a soft breeze
full of song.