The New Peace

Cold, like the basement
Brought upstairs in the winter,
Steaming a while, hiding its
Treasures then using the
Snow for a blanket,
Was the world in 1945.

The guns finished
Their swan songs, the
Swans landed on the floating
Ice in the ponds and spiders
Spread their webs with fervor
Over the crumbling landscapes.

Benign winds, warm and cuddly.
Found the scepter, lifted it from mud
That lacked fame, lacked presence,
Let basement be basement
And called it the new peace.

The trains started to run,
Doves circled over the land
Shedding their feathers and
Wound up in the pots of ungodly
Seekers of God, getting the
Table ready for a meal.