Virginia Petersen

God in question

Unfair and unjust,
or simply a figment
of the imagination.
Cold wars, starving
children, black air.
How could it be fair.

To love rather than
to be loved, they say
is the ultimate virtue.
Yet the night is long
when you can=t dance
with the song.

Turn to the sun,
close your eyes.
Let the wind slide
through your hair.
The heat on your face
will become a warm place.

Whispering to the soul.
The world, unfair and
unjust is our mistake.
So call out his name,
and love without shame.

The mourners

The mourners walked through
the glistening blades, wet
from the confusing morning fog.
Their foot prints left agonizing
trails as the crushed sod moaned.
The stale black dress grudgingly
followed behind her shuffle.
The dew silently grabbed
onto the forgotten hem, joined
by other tears from the green blades.
A bitter rose was tossed on the box,
cursing the darkness that lay below.
The trees bowed their heads,
the sap oozing from their pores.
The dirt wrapped itself around
the wood, a blanket from the cold.
Then it came, and they all felt it.
Silence is heavy.