Finding

Night Music

She sits on the mountain that is her home
and the landscapes slide away. One goes down
and then up to the monastery. One drops away
to a winnowing ring and a farmhouse where a girl
and her mother are hanging the laundry.
There's a tiny port in the distance where
the shore marries the water. She is numb
and clear and sodden with grieving.
She thinks of the bandits and soldiers who
return to the worlds they have destroyed.
Who plant trees and build walls and play music
in the village square evening after evening,
believing the mothers of the boys they killed
and the women they raped will eventually come
out of the white houses in their black dresses
to sit with their children and the old.
Will listen to the music with unreadable eyes.

It would be nice to live in a time when Linda Gregg paean had no pertinence. According to Gregg, 'poetry at its best is found rather than written.' Acknowledging that, I'm going to leave -- but not abandon -- you to find some.