American Pastoral

As democracy dies in front of our eyes
he writes poems about birds,
she paints flowers.

Vultures and drones glide high overhead.
Red roses bloom from a garden of broken hearts.

These are dark times my friend, even joy is dimly lit.

But look around us…we are surrounded here
by picture rocks and petrified wood—
a forest stood where we stand
200 million years ago.

He wrote poems about birds,
she painted flowers.