Should I feel guilty for porch
afternoons beneath mimosa fragrance
and magnolia blooms
for hummingbird whizzing
and wind chime songs?
Should I have shame for my beneath-
the-bush lazy cat and red geranium
pot swan, for shady side streets
swept by westerly breezes?
When Iran and Iraq are bombing,
when a hundred other places fight
and California is hot? When England
is flooded and bees die?
Should I dig a hole, hide
and wait for trumpets,
or just teach a child to read,
then give thanks for my corner
while it still exists?