Rick Smith

First, read this:

Roses
By George Bilgere

A late fall day, and unseasonably warm enough,
for whatever dire reasons,
to let me paint the rose trellis

a deep red in the brittle afternoon,
enjoying the gratitude of thirsty old wood
soaking up the blood.

This is satisfying,
for some reason, although I realize

that somewhere an aging surgeon
is stepping out for a showdown
with a famous young tumor
on the dusty street of somebody’s life.

And somewhere else a soldier
Is burning in his Hummer,

and a girl in a border town
is strapping a bomb
to the shy breasts
nobody ever got to kiss
before she heads to the marketplace
to mingle with the pears and radisishes,
the fish staring from their beds of ice.

But I’m just painting a trellis,
thinking already of the praise I’ll get for it,
even through I’m doing my usual half-assed job,
slopping red on the driveway,
Pollocking the flagstones, willing to fall
a little short of perfection,

although I know that spring, when it comes
uttering roses, will settle
for nothing less.

Yesterday I spent an hour watching the horror and despair of Haiti on CNN. Then, I watched The Hurtlocker (one of the year’s best films – watch this!), which portrays the stark reality of war in Iraq. In my hotel bed, I tried to get one last bit of work done before shutting down the day. But I couldn’t. Does it really matter? In the context of the desperate moments occurring right now in the lives of others distant from me, what is the consequence of one more incremental tweak to a powerpoint, of cleaning out one additional email, of posting one final tweet.

I wake up the next morning. It is time again to paint the trellis. If for no other reason than to try. To be active. To make an impact. To leave a contribution.

Our time, whenever it may come, will settle for nothing less.