At Play in the Cemetary

The day grows quiet here,
before the twilight hour descends,
and blurred against the rising night
are the oaks.

We once decorated the boughs
with yellow ribbons
and prayed red wounds from the East
would not disrupt our hopeful song.

Today's footnotes are different.
Bullets are bouncing off graffiti splotched walls,
leaving scars on flesh,
dents in bones
and blood oozing out like
honey from a teddy bear dispenser.

No longer can we hear the cricket's wing
for children are at play in the cemetery.
Instead, we listen for wild hearses
coming over the hill and shake angry fingers
toward unseen enemies.