2,800 Iraqis Killed in March

Thick pine needles lie on the path
Sticking to the soles of my shoes.
I walk feeling their soft resistance
Break beneath my weight.
Today the sky was merciless.

With sudden horror, I stop. I realize
The needles are not needles, but
Worms. The kind I would joyfully
Pluck and welcome to my garden
To keep the earth supple and aerated.

Their broken bodies strewn across cement
As though the sky meant to harm the very earth
It claims to protect. There is nowhere to step
Without mangling another innocent grub,
Without aiding the sky in its unjust battle.

They are just pawns, I tell myself,
Programmed to serve this very purpose.
As if life were a debt to be repaid.
Shrugging mournfully, I close my eyes
And keep walking.