Wonderland

Long after the fiery flash,
the stench of burnt gunpowder,
the clink and roll of one hot
casing across Dad's bedroom floor,

his backyard garden
persists beneath the stars.
Here, plastic ducks spin
their flightless wings;
windmill sails slice the breeze;
a thousand real and plastic
flowers shiver in their pots.

No birds perch on the feeders;
no bees hum through the clover.
The windchimes ring
an unsung requiem
of Jesus, Mary, St. Francis
seized in stone.

Scott Speck
07/24/2000