by Sheila Petre
Because we know the people
In the cities where the bombs
Rain down; because we know the town
And the chapel with the steeple
Which the smoke obscures; because we know,
We weep. We wring our hands before
Their silent God; we pour
Our vehemence into His waiting ear,
And watch from here, the rain—
How many seasons?
Ah, it is pain. Is pain,
Above this beating belief
That Someone watches,
Hands full of relief
Withheld for now, for reasons
I cannot understand.
Let all creation groan
To be so watched, so loved, so known.
Sheila lives with her welder husband Michael in a split-level house in PA teeming with children (nine) and stories (countless). Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org to ask her about her new poem book illustrated by Hannah Lehigh.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy