Peace

Peace
Christopher Bogart

What is it about peace
That seems so allusive,
Defies definition,
So hard to describe?

We never are wary of defining our wars.
We know what war is,
And we rush to describe it,
In all of its glory,
And in all of its gore.

Yet when it comes to peace,
All description ceases.
We become dumbstruck,
Resorting to rhetoric,
And pious platitudes.

Why do words seem to fail us
When we describe peace?
Could it be the idea
Is as frail as the faint breeze
That stirs leaves in autumn?
Is it pink, like the sky of the sun’s early rising,
Or the salmon that streaks it at the sun’s final setting,
As it journeys so slowly on its trip to the west?
Is it seen in the sheen on a cheek of a newborn,
Or can it be found in the fall of a snowflake
As it drifts slowly down
To the frost-covered ground?

Or could it be
That it’s gleaned
From our deepest of dreams,
As a word, only heard when,
Our swords bent to plowshares,
Our ears prick to listen
In a singular silence
For the sound
Of one word:
Peace.