Wildpeace

Not the peace of a cease-fire,not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,but ratheras in the heart when the excitement is overand you can talk only about a great weariness.I know that I know how to kill,that makes me an adult.And my son plays with a toy gun that knowshow to open and close its eyes and say Mama.A peace without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,without words, withoutthe thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it belight, floating, like lazy white foam.A little rest for the wounds—who speaks of healing?(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generationto the next, as in a relay race:the baton never falls.)Let it come like wildflowers,suddenly, because the fieldmust have it: wildpeace.