Every war has its own shape,
Its own trajectory, even when it
Occurs on territory pockmarked
By prior conflicts.
Crimea, the Donbas,
Mother Russia–
All have seen much carnage
Through the ages.
Those of us who’ve
Viscerally known atomic horrors
Dream gingerly, if at all,
Of a bad end this time.
We listen wistfully for the
Nightingales of the current conflict.
We watch reports of the
Thousands of deaths, of the
Millions fleeing destruction.
International aid agencies
Despair as planting goes
Dormant under the tread of tanks.
Earth is resurrecting herself—
She needs seeds, not bombs.
Watchful, waiting, we
See the graves and we ask:
What will be the shape
Of the next peace?
Jinny's Occasional Poems 