The drone of planes against a bright blue
morning, winds that fan the charred smell
of houses going up in flames. One of the men
that has lost his home tells the TV reporter
how he picked up his daughter from her crib
and walked out with her into the day. And now
they have nothing. Nothing, that is, except
what they haven’t lost: thumb in her mouth,
sleepy head against his shoulder; curls
brushing his cheek, breath sweet with milk
kind neighbors put into a cup. He shakes
his head and repeats: What could hold
against such a conflagration? And yet,
night will not touch this cargo.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.