I listen while the headlines disabuse
my senses of how evil should have limit.
I seek (sad, giving up on reason) rhyme
which also hides its head at so much sorrow
leaving headless iambic lines mute, blank.
Until a jackdaw chortles. Springtime sun
casts shadows of old dragons in the bin
of banished, vanished nightmares, which, though real,
are balanced by the living season’s thrill.