Not the peace of a cease-fire

Not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb

But rather

As in the heart when the excitement is over

And you can talk only about a great weariness

I know that I know how to kill

That makes me an adult

And my son plays with a toy gun that knows

How to open and close its eyes and say Mama

A peace without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares

Without words, without the thud of the heavy rubber stamp

Let it be light, floating, like lazy white foam

A little rest for the wounds

Who speaks of healing?

(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation

To the next, as in a relay race:

The baton never falls.)

Let it come

Like wildflowers

Suddenly, because the field

Must have it

Wildpeace