For
Benjamin Linder
That
crisp cinnamon smell
when
the crust bubbles,
crinkly
sounds, like Ben's laughter
in
the apple tree
Through
twilight orchards
games
of "Starlight, Moonlight"
Lights
blink on
outlining
Mother in the doorway
calling
to this apple pie tradition
Lights
blink on
for
the first time,
in
a remote village in
Nicaragua
A
young man watches all night
from
a nearby hilIside,
his
first hydroelectric plant
complete.
At dawn he juggles for village children
in
celebration
Days
later, by the stream he measured he falls
A
bullet through his head
How
dare he bring light
other
than red tracers of war!
In
dusty
Nicaragua
or
on green campus lawns of
Kent
State
tradition
continues
When
we target our children
our
bullets do not miss
At
the night march
in
memoriam
jugglers
toss burning torches
high
against the dark
