For the 70th anniversary of the U.S. dropping atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki

I watch puddles catch raindrops, ripples widen
like my boy's arms spreading in surprise,
water reverberating like his laughter, rings of interference
emanating to the edge and disappearing.
His small hands receive the gray sky's offering.

Across the planet, mourners gather and feel
vibrations through time from a different Little Boy, another Rain
of Ruin. That billowing cloud brought fire, burned
children, scarred and slaughtered.
When I look in my son's brown, bright eyes, I see
the millions screaming for their mothers
or born in bodies marred by invisible evil.

Can my tears or grief heal anything, cleanse
or consecrate the horror? Thunder cries in the distance.
I close my eyes. My son and our children look
to me from their past and future places, stand
in the humble wisdom of innocence. They teach me
The Task of All Ages:

"Let memory rise in you with strong wings
of crane's flight, ancient and elegant.
Be guided by the lanterns of The Children's destiny.
Sound ringing bells that herald peace and possibility
so new vibrations of love can be those we call our heritage."

As the wind picks up and the rain soaks our thirsty skin,
I carry my son over the grass, under the dogwood tree, to the house.
Together, we look up, then at each other.
Together, we step through the door.