Sidney Louise Brown, three poems

America: 9/11 2002

By the timbre of it, life goes on.

Overhead flight patterns coming and going

not the silent air

of all things stopped.

There is ground travel, mostly rumbling

vibrating diesel, gears shifting gravel loads.

Steel ramps extend,

drop heavy. Freight doors close,

metal slams. Everywhere

Commerce, Commerce, Commerce.

The work of glass plating is another,

its clink pitched high,

notes scaling into the hum

of air conditioning.

Nature tries to be heard.

A few things peep in.

Birdcalls cut through machinery

as the wind stirs movement.

Yet in the shade of this drooping hemlock,

its needles tap drop onto my journal

sounding the haunting song.


Whose hand hulls in to snip

fruit from the whorl whose

Hand peels sheaf-by-sheaf

to pinch out nesting spores whose