Blue With Blue

When kids are dying, lilacs
heavy, and wet grass
soft to keep them,
their backs soak up the hidden snow.
Sure they grow.

And they share the blood.
They can't leave the sky,
though city grief is all they can believe.
Dazed above their heads,
the leaves are chrome: society.

Then between the apples and the apples
they see home,
the blue trees of their homeland.
Her hands hold all they ever wanted, the pain
of a beloved calm that once drew

every shirt from every town; and so
they go, wound
with wound, grain with grain
in the whirring afternoon, into
the blue with blue.