All the women I love
are fixing guitar strings
or sitting quietly to paint the day with delicate caution.
One day in August
the women I love start to fade.
Melting like those glaciers
they sink beneath water to retreat a world growing hot.
I say, wait!
But their hair is already drifting dark patterns on the waves.
Some reasoned
they were too sensitive.
We are animals, really. This is survival of the fittest.
But if a country cannot take care of the gentle
if it relies only on strength...
Well, we are back to where we started
but with fewer souls singing us home towards peace.