by Claudia Lehman

The muttering of some murderous flying thing
darkened the morning,
dropping fear like bombs, reminders of
the young blood on the borders in the north.
In my kitchen, I looked skyward,
but the muttering stayed low.
Beyond the walnut trees,
an ancient tractor labored up the hill,
red as apples, dragging spring behind.
How could I not laugh?

So may all sleek warplanes, all lumpy tanks,
all bladed words, all thoughts of swords
turn into ploughshares, turn into fields,
beaten by laughter,
and pry back the earth to plant potatoes.

Claudia Lehman lives in Păltiniş, Romania, with her favorite poet, Kyle, and their daughters, Josephine and Lucia. She loves teaching, old books, Earl Grey tea, wildflowers, and her comfort zone.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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